


The Little Creature

by LittleMulattoKitten



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types, Beauty and the Beast: The Enchanted Christmas (1998), La Belle et la Bête | Beauty and the Beast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Belle and Mental Health Issues, Childhood Trauma, Dark Magic, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Love, Magic, Psychological Trauma, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-29 13:26:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 43,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3897997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMulattoKitten/pseuds/LittleMulattoKitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The curse with a twist. The prince gets his act together early on and the Enchantress gives him a second chance in the form of a girl who needs his love a thousand times more than he needs hers. The brave and timid runaway meets our charming Prince. But she's his last chance and he's her only hope. Beast/Belle, mature/dark themes, OOC, and the Gaston we love to hate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pilot

**Disclaimer: I only do these once. I don’t own Beauty and the Beast. I own the ideas behind this fanfiction. Nothing more, nothing less.**

**A/N at the bottom.**

**Chapter 1: Pilot**

**Songs Listened to While Writing This Chapter: “Wait For You” by Elliot Yamin, “Silhouettes” by Sleeping At Last, “Buried Alive Interlude” by Drake ft. Kendrick Lamar, “Hanging On” by Ellie Goulding**

The blueish grey stone of his balcony is frigid like the air around him, though to be honest, he isn’t bothered by either. His current body is similar in appearance to his old self but carries with it some drastic changes as well. This body adapts to the seasons contrarily to those of normal men. This body is stronger than wolves and bears. This body is faster than the horses in his stables. This body is agiler than any woodland creature. This body heals faster than a normal man’s would. This body is cursed.

He has grown used to it in the past nine years. It is still his face that greets him in the mirror, though the boyishness his fifteen-year-old not-cursed-self once held was gone, replaced with sharper lines of seriousness and maturity. His hair fell just past his shoulder, colored the same light auburn he had inherited from his mother. He is plenty attractive, he knows, yet he feels hideous because the mirror does not reflect the eyes of the man inside. Instead, they show him the eyes of the monster.

Lumiere defined his eyes as akin to dying embers near a healthy flame. Cogsworth insisted that they were a cross between a dark, candlelit glass of brandy and thick honey. Mrs. Potts mused that when he was full of energy, either when he was in a temper or pleasantly excited, that his eyes reminded her of molten iron. The prince found that closest thing to naming the hue his eyes now represented would have to be amber, but the mix of dark topaz, dull crimson, and white gold made his eyes appear to glimmer and swim with color. Sometimes the colors all blurred together, sometimes they stood out obviously, but they were not the dark azure orbs that had greeted him in the mirror since childhood. And yet despite the fact that they were the most obvious reminder of his inhuman state, he has grown used to his them as well.

Usually at this time of year Mrs. Potts would be especially eager to compliment his irises. But seeing as autumn had been a teasing affair and had quickly been overshadowed by a premature winter, she had not gotten the chance to compare his eyes to fallen leaves this year. It is not long past the ides of November now and yet as he stands on his balcony it begins to snow thick heavy clumps. The small patches of colorful leaves – those that _did_ manage to fall – above the not-yet-dead grasses are quickly buried in white as the storm continues to blow in. _This winter will be a harsh one_ , he realizes as he shakes the snow out of his hair and dusts himself off before returning to his room, being sure to firmly lock the balcony doors behind him. The gales would kick up soon enough and he did not desire the storm to be in his room with him. Content that they will indeed stay closed, he sits one of the two plush chairs in the tidy area by the fire.

In the first year of his curse, his personal chambers in the West Wing had been an absolute nightmare. He had destroyed every room with his newly acquired strength, ripping linens and drapes, tearing mattresses and pillows to shreds, and even shattering sections of the stone floors on many occasions. The autumn after the curse initiated, he realized that if he wanted things to change then he needed to make an effort towards breaking the curse. Shortly before his sixteenth birthday his servants had helped him restore the wing to its former glory. He could not completely lift the dreary aspect of the Enchantress’s curse, but he could at least keep his chambers presentable.

From the autumn he repaired the West Wing until he turned twenty, the prince spent most of his time either planning, hosting or attending parties. He had to make up a story with Cogsworth to hide the curse’s nighttime effect on the staff, but it seemed to make any guests the castle entertained that much more excited to come to his events. He could not allow any outsiders to stay in the castle after sunset, but he could open the doors at dawn and close them just after supper.

For those four years he intermittently studied, fulfilled his duties as a prince, and tried to find a wife. The Enchantress had been very clear with how to break his spell. He had to learn to love and be loved in return before he turned twenty-five. To help him with his task she had given him the enchanted rose, which served not only as his timepiece, but as his guide. If he willed it to, the rose would tell him the true intentions and feelings of any woman he thought of in its presence. And in those four years not a single woman that he took an interest in had any interest in loving him. Most of them were either being pressured by their parents to marry above their rank or desired to climb the social latter of their own ambition.

At the dawn of his twentieth year he lost hope. He gave up the parties, only allowed visitors for reasons relating to the crown, and made sure the only exception to his no-visitors-after-dusk rule was his uncle, who knew of the curse. The prince spent most of his time by himself from then on, but made sure his staff knew they were appreciated and thought of fondly. He did not want them to think he would not still attempt to free them from his mistake, but he had lost all sense of direction for going about his task. On more than one occasion, he had considered asking his uncle for permission to seek a wife from the lower class, but every time he attempted to put pen to parchment and open that conversation, his self-esteem plummeted and he forfeited the task.

Not ten days after the prince abandoned the parties for dreary solitude, the Enchantress came to him in a vision of sorts while he was alone in his chambers. She apologized for judging him so harshly and being unable to undo her curse, as the rules were binding and unchangeable. She made him a promise to make up for the wrong she had done him and swore to find someone who could break his curse, love him, and share the beautiful life he had built for himself. She told him to ignore any women who attempted to gain his affections. The only exception to her instructions would be the girl she sends to him, who he will be able to identify by her possession of an enchanted mirror, which the Enchantress would give to the girl herself.

After she told him not to lose his faith and have patience, she left, leaving him confused and starting at a large blotch of ink on his parchment, but that night he started having odd, fleeting dreams. In the dream he is trying to protect someone, a girl, but he isn’t certain, and for some reason he loses track of her. But regardless of if he has the dream several times a week or a few times a season, each time he remembers those same miniscule details. He knows that the dream is to remind him not to lose his faith, but honestly he wouldn’t have doubted the Enchantress’s promise even if he didn’t wake up in a confused, panicked sweat most of the time.

The prince is just barely twenty-four now. Meaning he has only a year left to undo the curse, and has yet to meet any girls with enchanted mirrors. He has obeyed the Enchantress’s orders about courtship in the meantime, ignoring daughters of Marquis and Comtes when he’s forced to do business with their fathers. He’s been patient, but now he’s rather anxious. How long would it take him to fall in love? How long would it take for the girl to love him in return? What if he spent the next eleven months trying to woo the girl and she rejected him in the end? Then he would only have a month to try and find someone else to break the curse. Was it even possible to fall in love in such a short period of time?

He peeks over his shoulder to glance out the glass of the balcony’s glass doors. The snow on the balcony railings is now about half as tall as Mrs. Potts in teapot form and is coming down heavier than it had been moments before. The wind blows the flakes harshly sideways and the larger pieces of ice clink as they hit the panes. He sighs, striding further into the room to tend to the fire. Mrs. Potts did not care that the cold caused him no harm; she would throw a fit if he didn’t keep his rooms comfortable no matter how he felt about the subject. Thus, he was in the habit of tending to the unnecessary fire.

As he stokes the flames, his sensitive ears pick up the sound of footsteps drawing near. Originally he assumes it is Mrs. Potts bringing his tea or supper, but as the steps reach the stairs he realizes that there are several people coming toward him. They are running and talking in hushed, worried tones. Something is wrong. He beats them to the doors. Lumiere and Cogsworth stop to bend double when they see him, making fruitless attempts at speaking and catching their breath simultaneously. Little Chip – frozen at four by way of the curse – has followed his mother and seems to be as confused as the prince feels. He also recognizes a few of the guards that usually patrol the grounds are with the entourage as well. Mrs. Potts, who has color in her cheeks from sprinting to him, manages to speak clearly and takes charge of the group.

“Sir, a most troublesome and wonderful event has occurred,” she begins excitedly. “These men were out patrolling not half an hour ago when they stumbled across a young woman and her horse. The woman seemed to have slipped off and was half buried in the snow when they found her. Judging by her state and the animal’s fatigue, they have been out in this mess since it started at the very least. She’s got an awful fever and we have her in one of the warmer rooms in the East Wing on the first floor,” she says in a rush. “But Master, before you get upset,” she starts again, having seen the displeasure filter across his face, “When they carried her inside a small hand mirror fell out of one of her bags. The thing is so delicate looking and small it should have shattered, Master, but _it did no such thing_.”

The prince absorbs her words, slowly letting them sink in and trying to keep his excitement at bay. “Is the girl awake?” He asks, eager as well as apprehensive.

“No sir,” says a slightly less winded Lumiere. “But I would come see her regardless. She is a vision, Your Majesty, the most _magnifique_ thing I have ever seen.”

“She really is very pretty, sir!” adds Chip earnestly as he nods his blonde head with wide, honest blue eyes. He clings tightly to his mother’s skirts.

Under any other circumstances, the prince would have thought Lumiere was teasing him in some way, but the utter admiration in his voice as he spoke of the girl told him that the Casanova was perfectly serious. The girl must be quite a sight indeed to render Lumiere in such a state of awe.

“Indeed, S-sir,” a stuttering Cogsworth gasps, “She’s positively stunning! A-a most attractive couple you’ll be if she is indeed, the girl you were p-promised.” Cogsworth supports himself against the wall, still attempting to regain his breath.

The prince returns his attention to the guards. “There’s no good reason any young woman, gorgeous or otherwise, would be out in this sort of storm at this hour,” he says, and the adults instantly catch his meaning judging by their expressions. “Tell the rest of the guard to bundle up. I want patrols all night. Keep the perimeter close to the grounds so we don’t lose anyone in the snow, but if anyone is after this girl, I want them stopped before they can so much as inquire of her whereabouts.”

“Yes, Sir!” the four guards chorus as they take off down the hall to relay their orders. The prince is left with only Lumiere, an almost recovered Cogsworth, Mrs. Potts, and Chip, who look at him expectantly.

He shifts his weight as he thinks. “I’d like to see the mirror…and the girl, of course,” he adds, if only to avoid any further encouragement. Regardless of his nonchalance, the four of them look at him excitedly as they lead him to her room in the East Wing. The prince tunes out most of their chatter along the way, only really listening when Mrs. Potts talks about the girl’s health,  apparently her fever is startlingly high, which confuses the motherly woman since the girl is clearly in her early twenties. She suspects that the girl must be under a lot of stress if her body is having so much trouble battling a simple cold, which makes the prince worry as well. There are very few scenarios he could come up with in which a beautiful young woman would end up with such a stressful daily life that it affects her health and none of them are innocent in nature.

He’s lost, reeling in nightmarish thoughts as they descend the main stairs and navigate the first floor to the East Wing. With every step, he gets more anxious. The Enchantress would obviously send him a girl who knew life’s hardship as well as he did. He realizes that her logic with that decision is sound, since the girl needs to be able to accept him as he is. And yet he is greatly bothered by this notion as well since he has so little time to assess the situation and break the curse. Surely she won’t trust him or even want to stay in the castle if she’s hell bent on self-preservation. There are dozens of reasons to explain why she would be on the run. Perhaps she is _not_ a victim, but rather a criminal herself. How could a _prince_ justify marrying a felon? Though the more he dwells on that unpleasant scenario, the less likely it seems. The Enchantress promised someone he could love and be loved by, someone to share his life with. So the girl must be someone he could marry with ease.

Coming full circle, he decides she must be a victim of some sort. In some ways he would prefer her to be a criminal. He can teach her how to change her character, but how on earth would he comfort her if she’s been attacked, wrongfully accused of immoral behavior, or worse, _violated_. He shudders, clenching his fists as he walks. If she is as beautiful as they say, there’s no telling what horrors she could have sustained in life. The upper classes tend to protect their daughters better, but the lower classes turn a blind eye to cases where daughters are taken advantage of, wives are beaten, or daughters are raped and then forced to marry their assailants. And how on earth would he gain her trust if such were the case? No sane creature would live in a castle full of people she doesn’t know, _men_ she doesn’t know, if she had experienced such violence.

Not to mention, the girl must have a family somewhere, mustn’t she? Unless she is an orphan like himself, and that theory opens the doors to a dozen other problems he may have when attempting to gain her trust…

“Sir, we’re here,” Mrs. Potts says gently. He flinches to a stop, willing his hands to relax once more, and finds them before a set of oak doors. Giving Mrs. Potts an appreciative smile for bringing him out of his thoughts, he passes his entourage and enters the room. A subdued Madame Armoire is to his left tending the fire diligently. The former lady-in-waiting glances at him as he enters, appearing as worried as Mrs. Potts had been moments before. He gives her a small nod, taking in the space before him.

Though it is smaller than his chambers, the layout is almost identical. The back wall is lined with windows and has two glass doors leading to a snow coated balcony. Doors frame each side of the mantle. The one closest to the back wall leads to the washroom, while the one closest to the entrance opens to reveal a walk-in closet. Her room simply lacks a small table near the closet with a rose under a bell jar and an adjoining study door. Not to mention several dozens of square footage. Dark wine colored curtains block out most of the light in the room, save for a sliver coming from the balcony doors. The four poster against the right wall is smaller than his, but seems excessively large compared its inhabitant, who is the single most enchanting creature he has ever beheld.

Her hair is a dark brown and contrasts with her delicate cream colored flesh. Equally dark eyelashes rest against the feverish tint in her cheeks. Her brows naturally arc over her resting eyes while her nose sits perfectly amidst her other features. Her feverish cheeks match the light pink hue of her lips, which are parted ever so slightly as she breathes softly through them. Mrs. Potts and Madame Armoire only have the covers pulled up to her waist, most likely because of her fever. And she’s wearing a thick modest nightdress instead of the blue frock he noticed over the back of the chair by the fire. He sees that the sleeping garment is too big for her tiny frame, frowning when his eyes catch her collar bones, which are a tad too prominent. Her arms are thin as well, with tiny shoulders that wouldn’t hold up the nightdress on their own if she were up and moving about. At present, her left hand is tucked under her head, but the right rests gently on the bed. From what he can see of her left hand, there is no trace of a wedding band, which pleases him, but those hands are so small, fingers too thin. She’s a ghost of a woman under the nightgown, judging by how much of the thing she doesn’t fill out, but she’s still lovely.

Very lovely, in fact, yet the obvious malnourishment she’s sustained makes him mildly nauseous and more than a little angry. The girl couldn’t possibly be younger than nineteen and certainly not older than twenty-three, so why wasn’t she married? Someone should have claimed this tiny beauty the moment she was of marrying age and yet here she is, lying sick in one of his rooms, seemingly unmarried. The prince locks his jaw, realizing that the odds of this young woman being the victim of some sort of abuse were getting higher and higher.

Madame Armoire is waiting patiently beside the bed as he looks over the girl and organizes his thoughts. He turns to her, still frowning. “When you changed her clothes, were there any physical indications of harm?” he asks hesitantly, afraid of her answer.

Her lips press into a grim line. “She has several bruises along her right side, although those could be from falling off her horse. No fresh wounds, but she has several scars in…telling places…” she tells him solemnly. When he raises an auburn brow at her last statement, she continues reluctantly. “It looks as if someone took a blade to the tops of her thighs. The wounds did not appear self-inflicted. They’re thin, short, flat slivers of scars, but there’s a good dozen or so on each leg, almost as if she fell in glass. There’s also some similar scarring on her stomach and ribcage, and one faint line on the left side of her neck as if -”

“As if someone held a knife to her throat,” he growls quietly. The beast in him is seething with anger and a foreign sense of protectiveness for the girl. He has to do something. “I wish to move her,” he says through clenched teeth.

Madame Armoire blinks in surprise. “To where, Master?”

“My room.”

“But, Sir, she’ll likely be terrified of you-”

“I am well aware of that fact!” He snaps harshly, losing his patience. “But she has the mirror, does she not?” Madame Armoire, nodding with subdued excitement, motions towards three bags sitting beside the door. There is a leather satchel, a canvas messenger bag, and a cotton knapsack. “Which one?” He asks. She points to the leather satchel. He opens the flap, finding the mirror between a book, several folded maps, and carefully rolled up parchment, along with two very lethal knives, an expensive looking pen, and a few bottles of ink. Carefully observing the crystal looking glass, he takes note of the slight magical hum radiating into his palm. The same hum he felt around the enchantress the last time he saw her.

“She’s the one,” he says firmly, standing after he returns the item to its rightful place. “I want her moved to the West Wing, my chambers, at once.”

“But Master,” Mrs. Potts says from the door, having been quietly observing and listening to his exchange with Madame Armoire with Lumiere and Cogsworth. “She’s quite possibly terrified of men. She’ll think you mean her harm. She could panic; attempt to harm you or herself, sir, please reconsider!” Mrs. Potts proclaims with intense motherly instinct visible in her posture.

He does his best not to growl at her, but his patience is at its end. The beast is displeased by the state of the little woman on the bed. And despite the improvements to his temperament since the curse took hold, he could still get quite scary when provoked. “She will learn to trust me by sleeping in my bed. She will learn that I will not touch her without her expressed permission. She will learn to be safe here,” he says in a quiet hiss, barely maintaining his irritation. He bends down and starts putting her bags on one shoulder. “While she’s ill I wish to tend to her. Obviously there are actions which will require you and Madame Armoire, Mrs. Potts, but the girl is my only chance. If she’s truly been so horribly broken by some bastard with a death wish, then I do not have the luxury of waiting to gain her trust at her pace. Hopefully, something in her things will confirm my suspicions, but think on it. What father would not have a daughter this beautiful safely married by now? She’s nearly spinster aged,” he continues. “She’s likely an orphan with little to no family. I would guess that she’s a peasant just trying to avoid any further torment. Let us simply hope she hasn’t been impregnated because if so I will track down the bastard who harmed her and have my uncle execute him. Her birth rank be _damned_.” He vows, his tone serious and as deadly as his promise.

Lumiere clears his throat cautiously. “Actually, Master…she may not be a peasant. Her horse is a purebred Belgian and very well trained. He’s of excellent temperament, in fact. Certainly something even the lower ranks of nobility could not have afforded. At least, not with the training and discipline he has,” Lumiere explains gently.

The prince hums in acknowledgement, still holding back his temper. “Tell the stable boys to take good care of the Belgian, but should she somehow get out of my sight, she is not allowed to leave the grounds on that horse without my expressed permission.” Lumiere nods diligently. The prince returns his attention to Mrs. Potts. “I want her upstairs before sundown, _please_ ,” he grinds out. And then he breezes through the door and back up to the West Wing, with the girl’s bags.

Once back in his rooms, he sets her things beside his study door before adding significantly more wood to the dimming fire. The little woman will certainly need to be kept warmer than he does. Glancing at the bed, he realizes his habit of sleeping with sheets rather than quilts and duvets will not suffice for his guest. The presence or absence of blankets does not bother him due to his lack of discomfort from the chill of the room. Finding one of his maids tending to the fire in his study, he asks her to fetch him the items he requires. He isn’t waiting in his room for long when she comes in with a large stack of fabrics in her arms that block a good portion her view. After taking the heavy load from her, he thanks her and sends her on her way. Spoiled prince he once was, but he could make a bed by himself.

His loot of linens consists of one thin light blue quilt that he recognizes from his childhood, two thicker quilts, one lavender and the other sea green – both of which his mother had once particularly enjoyed curling up in near a fire with a book – and the duvet to match his bed set. He layers the items over his already straightened sheets, which are dark blue sheets with gold accents. Then he adds the light blue, lavender, and sea green quilts, and the dark blue and gold accented duvet. Once he has the duvet smoothed and has turned down each layer on the left side of the bed, he idly studies the swirling gold pattern of thorny stems leading to a large shimmering rose in the center. He remembers why he had it put away to begin with as his gaze travels to the wilting enchanted rose in the corner between the door and the fireplace. Deciding the duvet no longer upsets him, he then makes certain that all of the drapes are pulled shut keep out the light reflecting off the snow. As he finishes adjusting the last navy velvet curtain, his ears pick up the sound of approaching footsteps.

Beating them to the doors once more, the prince opens them wide to allow Lumiere inside with the girl in his arms. It bothers the prince to no end that it takes very little exertion on Lumiere’s behalf to have carried the girl thus far. The gangly man walks around the bed and sets her down gently. The prince trades places with Lumiere once he’s detached himself from the girl and diligently wraps each layer around her tiny body. Once he’s satisfied with his work he returns his attention to his staff.

“Mrs. Potts, Madame Armoire, I would appreciate it if when you venture to this wing in the morning for your typical mid-morning duties, you bring what is needed to bathe and dress the girl,” he says gently. The beast’s and prince’s tempers had been given a chance to cool down as he prepared his rooms, and he felt a tad of remorse for being so harsh with them before. The two ladies nod emphatically, neither seeming to hold any hard feeling for his earlier behavior. “Lumiere, Cogsworth, double check that the guards relayed my orders. I want the strictest patrols until the girl has awoken and I have assessed the situation.” There’s another round of nodding. He returns his attention to Mrs. Potts once more. “Could you please tell cook of the girl’s arrival? She will likely need soups and bread to eat when she awakes. She’s such a tiny thing. When she’s well enough I endeavor to get her to a healthy weight,” he says softly.

“I’ve carried sacks of flour heavier than she,” Lumiere offers unhappily. “She’s too beautiful to wither away like that…”

Mrs. Potts purses her lips. “I agree that the poor dear is extremely underfed, but if she has a family she will not stay here long past recovering from her sickness,” she says reasonably. “We have no way to be certain that we will be able to take care of her or have her here for the long term.”

“You are correct, Mrs. Potts,” the prince sighs, remembering his earlier thoughts about the girl’s situation, “but I hope to find out what we need to know about her while she sleeps tonight. I have her things. There were letter writing materials in her satchel, perhaps I will discover some correspondences among the rest of her things,” he tells them in a hopeful tone. “For now, I believe I have everything I need.”

Lumiere and Cogsworth bow and take their leave.

“I’ll send up some medicine for her,” Madame Armoire says quietly before bidding him farewell as well.

The prince notices that Chip did not following his mother this time as the concerned Mrs. Potts studies him, unmoving despite his gentle dismissal. Her expression is equal parts curious and displeased. “Sir, Lumiere’s mention of her horse concerns me greatly,” she murmurs. “I only know of two families in all the nearby provinces who have ever had expensive, well trained Belgians…”

He feels a prickle of anxiety crawl up his spine at her insinuation. “I fear your worries may hold weight, Mrs. Potts. Let us hope that if you are correct in this assumption that the rumors we heard prove to be the unreliable sources of information they’ve always been.” She nods to him stiffly; clearly fretting over the troubling possibilities her wayward thought sparked.

“Tell cook to have broth ready for soup, remind Adele to bring the medicine, make sure Lumiere and Cogsworth speak to the heads of guard…” she murmurs, ticking off her fingers. “Is there anything else you’d have us do before sundown, Master?” She inquires, clearly attempting to distract herself from other worrisome topics.

He shakes his head. “That should suffice unless Cogsworth would like to aid me in my study while Lumiere speaks with the guard. If so, send him up. He will know what I’m looking for better than I will,” he tells her. “Thank you, Mrs. Potts.”

She smiles at him, though she still seems troubled. “T’is nothing to thank me for, Master, that’s what I’m here for.” She gently pats his bicep, gives it a reassuring squeeze, then makes her way down the hall.

He sighs quietly, returning to his bedchambers where the slumbering Aphrodite lay curled in on herself beneath the layers of bedspreads. Quietly, he makes his way round to the left side of the bed so that he might check her temperature. With a feather light touch, he brushes a few pieces of sweat-soaked hair from her forehead and tucks away. She’s warm, but not dangerously so as Mrs. Potts has implied earlier. He folds down the duvet and two quilts so that some of the heat can escape her upper body without her catching chills. Once he’s finished making sure she’s comfortable he goes to the door between the enchanted rose and his fireplace – his walk in closet – and dresses for bed.

Once he throws a thick dark blue robe over his night clothes, he takes a candle from the mantle and lights it, setting it on the empty, non-sentient candle stick on his night stand. Between the fire and the candle, there was a soft warm glow in the room, but not enough to wake his little treasure. Finally content with the state of the room, the prince takes a few steps to his right, to the door that connects his study to his bedchambers. He leaves the door ajar as he enters, making his way over to his desk. He quietly shifts through the files and letters there, looking for specific pieces that will help him prove or disprove the girl’s possibly identity. Cogsworth knocks quietly from the hallway entrance some time later to help him. They spend quite a good bit of time going through Cogsworth’s filing system for the prince’s letter correspondences. The portly man turns into a small clock at sundown, and despite being offered the option of leaving, the sentient-clock quietly directs the prince to where he believes certain letters are filed away. The moon is high when the prince deems their search finished and sends Cogsworth, who seems rather pleased at being needed by his master, off to bed.

Leaving his loot on his study desk, the prince quietly blows out all the candles he had lit and kills the fireplace. He shuffles back into his bedroom, slipping off his robe as he does so. The door quietly clicks shut behind him when he notices that the woman in his bed is stirring. He holds his breath, unmoving beside the bed as she rolls over, her body now facing him. His heart stutters as her eyes slowly flutter open and her lock onto his. Mrs. Potts’s warning of her possible reaction to his presence echoes in his ears as he watches her blink at him, unfazed. But nothing the matronly woman could have said would prepare him for what was to happen next.

“Hello, Adam…”

**Yes, dear readers, that was a cliffhanger worthy of the gods. I have a lot planned for this fic and I hope my evil cliffy doesn’t deter you too much. But there wasn’t anywhere better to end it.**

**Now, just so this is out there to begin with, I’m a college student. I love fanfiction and my readers dearly, but we all know life gets in the way. If we get halfway through this fic and I fall off the radar for a few months, I apologize in advance. Those who have read “Cato and Katniss Outsmart the Capitol” know what I’m talking about. Even if it takes me forever to post the final chapter, I will finish as story. I’m stubborn like that.**

**Almost done, bear with me. This fic is rated M for a reason. There will obviously be some dark themes in play here. As of right now I have not decided if I’m going to have a lot of smut in this fic, but I will warn those of lighter hearts at the beginning of any chapter containing citrus should there be any. I can’t tell you much more without giving away some of the future plot, but let it be known that I do not encourage rape and have no intentions of having to write such a scene. I’ll warn you if anything aside from referencing past events comes into play in this fic.**

**As always, if there are any questions or concerns with the material or themes please express so in a review or PM. I will respond to all questions and most reviews at my earliest convenience.**

**I look forward to sharing this story with you guys. See you next chapter. <3**

**-LMK**


	2. A Heavy Heart to Carry

**Chapter 2: A Heavy Heart to Carry**

**Songs: “Falling in Love at a Coffee Shop” by Landon Pigg, “Heavy In Your Arms” by Florence + The Machine, “Northern Lights” by Cider Sky, “Five Preludes from Op.23 (1904) and Op. 32 (1910): Op. 32 No. 10 in B Minor” by Conrad Tao**

“Hello Adam…” She whispers, her voice slightly scratchy. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had this dream.”

It takes every ounce of his will not to purr at the sound of his name on her lips, which leaves him at the mercy of her eyes. Some of the firelight graces the side of her face, making the exposed iris blaze bright butterscotch while its shadowed twin is a clear, duller shade of gold. Fatigue and fever weigh down the lids of her eyes, but there is enough clarity in them to tell him that she is very much awake. He slowly exhales the breath he was holding, trying to regain his bearings as she watches him expectantly.

“Hello, Beauty,” he whispers, remembering that he needs to respond. The endearment flows out of him unexpectedly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the extra layer instincts he labels as the Beast is preening proudly for being able to slip a thought past the prince’s usually careful defenses. Ignoring his alter ego, the prince chooses to play along with what the girl said. “Refresh my memory, would you?” He asks gently. “What dream?”

She gives him a tired, patient smile. “You never remember,” she sighs softly. “It’s been a few months since last time, but no matter what time of year it actually is,  if I’m here it’s a winter’s night. I’ve woken up in this bed dozens of times, always right after you return from your study. You’re confused at first but you adjust quickly. From that point we usually just talk. The dream ends when I fall back asleep,” she finishes drowsily.

“And what do we talk about?” His voice is pillow soft as he carefully climbs in beside her. Once he’s comfortably settled with her amongst the pillows, she snuggles closer, burrowing her tiny body flush against his. He bites back the urge to purr once more, opting instead to rest his chin atop her head while the Beast rumbles contently in his mind. Her scent is a sweet and overwhelming mixture of vanilla, wood smoke, and something else he cannot name. Whatever it is, it’s as heady as it is heavenly. Sighing with satisfaction, he wraps an arm around her lower back and holds her close, idly wondering if the Enchantress put a spell on the girl to make her so tantalizing.

The Beast purrs softly once more when she emits a tiny yawn against his chest before speaking. “You usually ask me things,” she replies, her voice still quiet and heavy with fatigue. “I can never get you to talk about yourself much though. You won’t tell me how to find you, but you do tell me to keep looking…” she sighs again, only this time it sounds sad. “I can’t stay in this province much longer before he starts to pick up my trail, Adam. She said this was where I would find you, but…” she trails off, her voice so broken that it chips away a piece of his heart with every syllable.

“But what, Precious?” he prods gently although his chest thick with an unnamable emotion.

“I can’t find you,” she whimpers. “She said you’d keep me safe, Adam, but if he finds me first then all of this, hoping for you, searching…it will have all been for nothing…”

He fidgets uneasily for a moment. There _is_ a man hunting her. “Who’s trying to find you, Little Beauty?” He inwardly rolls his eyes at himself. He has no idea why the Beast is hell bent on that particular endearment, but it suits her, so he resigns himself to a possible lifetime of its usage.

“I can’t tell you,” she murmurs pitifully as she slowly, absentmindedly nuzzles her nose and cheeks against his chest, “Not until I find you…”

He tightens his grip around her torso as he tries to keep his emotions at bay. The Beast whimpers and growls surging with such a fierce sense of protectiveness for the girl that it stuns the prince with its intensity. In all of his past attempts at courtship the Beast had ignored or been strongly against any women the prince paid attention to. But now it seemed as if his other side had claimed this enchanting beauty as his own. And while that thought unnerved the prince, the pull he felt towards her was irresistible just like the girl herself. One little woman has manage to ensnare him so perfectly, so quickly, that he can barely comprehend the last few hours in her presence. But in that time he had gone from having his emotional footing to balancing precariously on an edge. What would it take from her to send him tumbling down? A smile? A tear? A giggle? He’s doomed at this rate.

“And how will you know when you’ve found me, Beauty?” he purrs, pressing his nose into her hair and inhaling deeply. Both prince and Beast sigh contently.

She shrugs, burrowing her face into his chest as she presses nearer to him despite their already close proximity. She’s a bit warmer than she should be, but her fever had lessened while he was in his study. She’s clearly still too tired to realize that he is not a figment of her dreams. But at least she’s showing some level of improvement.

The Beast senses her pout before she answers his question. “Recognition, I assume? If this is what you actually look and sound like, that is. If not then I suppose I will have to rely on your judgement. She said you’d been looking for me too, or more specifically, looking for the mirror,” she mumbles grumpily.

He can’t resist smiling into her hair. The Enchantress must have had fun when she decided to give the girl a recurring dream to prepare her for meeting him. And suddenly he’s upset that their dreams hadn’t been shared, that he didn’t have memories of her telling him all about herself and her life. He feels cheated, but at least the girl knew he’d be searching for her as well. That would certainly make the next time she woke simpler.

"I see," he coos indulgently. "And what could I do or say when you find me to prove my identity? It _is_ possible, albeit unlikely, that you might meet me in person in the same scenario as your dreams. How could I help you differentiate between the dream and reality?" She shifts back slightly to peek up at him, those hazel eyes peer curiously into his own as he gazes down at her, resisting another ridiculous urge from the Beast.

“As long as something was obviously different I would probably assume I wasn’t dreaming,” she replies, eyeing him as if she suddenly held great concern for his mental health. “If I was to wake up in this bed and you weren’t returning from your study, for example. Or if it's morning instead of night.” She squints at him and her nose wrinkles adorably. “That’s a rather odd question, Adam.”

He gives her a small smile, giving in to one of the Beast’s desires and nuzzling her nose. Her eyelids flutter closed as she leans into his affections. “Perhaps I am a rather odd man, Beauty,” he counters softly as Beast radiates with content.

He feels her smile lazily. “Perhaps,” she murmurs.

And despite the fact that he could lay here all night talking with her, he knows she needs rest to combat her sickness. Reluctantly, he pulls back from caressing her nose with his own. She frowns, blinking her eyes open questioningly. He gives her a small smile and presses his lips to her slightly too-warm widow’s peak. “Sleep, little Beauty.”

“But I don’t want to wake up yet,” she protests, whining just enough to torture him.

“There’s a surprise waiting for you when you wake up,” he promises, hoping she’ll believe him.

She’s quiet for a few moments, but then she skeptically asks, “What sort of surprise?”

“A pleasant one, I hope,” he mutters against her skin, trying to keep the amusement out of his tone. “Please rest. The sooner you sleep the sooner you get to find out,” he bargains.

She huffs softly against his chest. “Fine,” she mumbles, folding herself perfectly flush against him once more.

He rests his chin atop her head and gently rubs circles over her nightgown where her lower back meets her hip. The fire pops and fizzes quietly while he listens to her breathing slow. She’s been asleep for several minutes when he lets out a heavy sigh. Playing along with her dream fantasy had required very little effort on his part, but he realized that there was a slim chance her guard would be as low in the morning as it had been tonight. She probably wouldn’t let him hold her like this for quite some time, in fact… And the thought saddens both the prince and the Beast.

Thankfully, pretending to be a dream version of himself had given him some insight into the mystery surrounding the girl. She had admitted that there was a man trying to hunt her down, confirming the prince’s victim theory. The scars Madame Armoire had described on her body implied attempted sexual abuse at the very least. This leads him to assume that her assailant and hunter are one in the same, but if the girl reveals the two are separate entities then he will have to reassess his supply of guards and possibly contact his uncle for assistance in the matter.

The snowstorm fiercely kicks up again beyond the castle walls. The sound of ice clinking against his windows reminds him that it is  he’ll need to sleep tonight if he’s going to have the patience to earn her trust come dawn’s light.

He briefly pulls his arm away from her tiny waist to fold their comforters down a bit more. Deeming the sheets safe for her fever, he fists the hem in his hand and resituates his hold around her, effectively pulling the thin covering higher up her frame. Taking one last deliberate inhale of her scent, the prince closes his eyes and wills himself to sleep…

*-*-*

He wakes with a start, reflexively coiling every muscle defensively, but he stills and relaxes when his fatigued mind registers the small source of warmth against his chest. At some point during the night, the prince had gone from being cuddled up on his side with his tiny bedmate to lying on his back with her upper body resting half on top of him. Without opening his eyes he leans forward, scenting the locks of hair that tickle his chin and lips. She has one hand pressed between her body and the mattress that seems to have his night shirt fisted in its grasp, while the other lays limp over his heart and collarbone. Not quite awake enough to resist the temptation, he purrs lightly, more comfortable that he can ever remember being. He’s so content, in fact, that he resigns himself to spending the entire morning exactly where he is.

But his good humor fades when remembers what woke him in the first place. He’d been plagued by the nightmare from the Enchantress again only this time it was not as vague as it has been in the past. Instead of only remembering emotions, he recalls some wisps of events and the setting.

In the dream, he had been in a dark room that was similar to the bedroom his staff had originally placed the girl in, except the furniture was even grander than that of his guest room and the layout had been slightly different as well. The four poster bed had an ivory oak frame with gold accented patterns carved into the wood and had been set against the wall directly across from the door. There was a bay window on each side of the bed with thick lilac curtains tied back to let moonlight dance across the smooth stone floors. Along the left wall was a matching oak vanity with the same gold carvings. Along the right was an empty white marble fireplace and a large wardrobe sat in the corner between the fireplace and the door. There were two closed doors on each side of the vanity, which he assumed lead to the washroom and either a closet or ante chamber. One door rested between the back wall and the fireplace, which was slightly ajar. He ignored it.

He had walked a few paces into the room, had been observing his surroundings, when his reflection in the vanity mirror started him. Somehow his eyes were once again the dark blue he missed. But his reflection showed him a figure standing next the fireplace. His fifteen-year-old self leaned against the marble mantle, his eyes the familiar amber the prince’s older visage now lacked. Almost immediately, the prince understood that the figure behind him was the Beast he’d learned to tame and that he was simply himself. The azure eyed twenty-four-year old and his younger self had eyed each other in the mirror for a few moments before the prince spoke.

_“Where are we?”_

Beast had raised a condescending brow. _“Surely you remember. You’ve been here before.”_

But the prince could not recall ever being in the room outside of his dreams. He frowns at his reflection. _“No, I don’t recall,”_ he had replied.

 _“Then you better remember, quickly, Prince Charming, before Beauty dies.”_ The adolescent had said bitterly.

The prince hadn’t gotten a chance to reply. He heard screaming outside the hall and had run out of the room towards the sound. The sight before him had made his heart stutter. What should have been a hallway was a small space surrounded by blinding shadows. Beauty was in front of him wearing a beautiful golden ball gown with pained, fearful tears streaming down her face. From the shadows, two muscled arms pin her against the dark edge. One massive paw has her by the throat. Beast whimpers behind him, not bothering to step forward, as the prince’s eyes slowly glide down and find the other floating hand. The hilt of a dagger was in under meaty fingers and the blade was embedded in her ribs.

 _“No…”_ he’d moaned. _“No, no, no, Beauty!”_ And on the last syllable, the hand holding the blade had tensed and ripped the weapon from her chest as the other released its hold on her. Crimson had quickly spread across the gorgeous gown as he stepped forward to catch the dying girl. His hands had been shaking furiously as he tried to apply pressure to the wound and stop the bleeding, but there had been blood everywhere. _“No, no no,”_ he’d sobbed. _“Beauty, please!”_ he screamed when her eyes started to flutter. _“Tell me how this happened, who caused this!?”_

Her unfocused hazel eyes had met his blue ones sadly as she whispered, _“You did, Adam.”_ Then he woke up.

He tightens his grip around the waist of the very much alive version of Beauty on top of him. He had never remembered that much of the nightmare before, but he now understood the phrase ‘ignorance is bliss’ with much more clarity. Anxiety is still tingling through his veins even as he lays there encased in the combined warmth of his body heat and Beauty’s. Being cocooned in her scent was helping his hammering heart, but he was still unnerved, to say the least. He flinches when he realizes that they are not alone in the room. He feigns sleep.

“D’you think we should wake him?” Mrs. Potts’s familiar voice whispers quietly. “He looks awfully discontented.”

“Do you really think that wise, _Cherie_?” Lumiere whispers back. “He’ll be startled. Remember how gentle he was last time someone scared him?”

Mrs. Potts quietly huffs and the prince can hear her setting up tea on the short coffee table near the fire. “Hush with that sarcasm, Lumiere. We’ll let him sort out his own bad dreams, but honestly it doesn’t look to me like he slept all that terribly,” she continues, her hushed tone amused.

Lumiere chuckles quietly. “I think he likes her,” he whispers cheerfully.

“Certainly not,” Mrs. Potts deadpans.

Lumiere continues, “Look at him, he’s cuddling her! Have you ever seen him so affectionate before? I never have.”

Mrs. Potts laughs softly. “Only as a child, with his mother specifically. He _was_ awfully sweet with Princess Elise’s daughter when he was a toddler,” she tells him. Lumiere hums in agreement. “That was a lovely trip, wasn’t it? The queen was so fond of Elise. It’s such a pity how both families died within two years of each other... And of course you’ve heard the rumors about what became of her daughter.” The prince can all but hear Mrs. Potts shaking her head sadly.

Lumiere lightly clicks his tongue. “Everyone’s assumed her to be dead now,” Lumiere says solemnly. “It’s been almost a decade since she disappeared.”

“Poor lamb,” Mrs. Potts sighs. “Well enough of that, we’ve got plenty to worry about here. Such as how in God’s name Adele Armoire and I are going to take care of the girl if Adam’s going to cling to her in his sleep,” she mutters.

“You could always come back later,” the prince mumbles, alerting them of his conscious state and earning a chuckled from Lumiere.

“Oh could I?” Mrs. Potts counters, keeping her voice low for the girl’s sake. “You could unwrap yourself from her.”

He playfully frowns. “But I’m quite comfortable exactly as I am.”

“Oh I’m sure, Your Highness,” says Lumiere, his voice alight with amusement.

The prince peaks open an eye, finding them both at the end of his bed watching him with smiles that are far too amused for his liking. He snaps his eye shut again and rolls them behind the lids.

“I saw that,” Mrs. Potts says. “How did she sleep?”

He’s thankful for the sudden change of topic since he couldn’t even attempt to explain why he was so connected to the girl anyway. “Well,” he sighs, “For the most part she was fine. She woke up in the middle of the night for a while. It would seem the Enchantress has given her a recurring dream which involved her waking up in my bed as I return from my study. It just so happens that that’s exactly how she woke up, so she assumed she was dreaming being here,” he tells them. “We didn’t talk much, but she did tell me that she’s on the run from a man. She didn’t say who or why he’s after her, but I am almost certain we could make an accurate guess.”

Lumiere’s mouth presses into a grim line. “He’s most likely swine without the slightest idea of how to cherish a beautiful woman. Probably not very wise from a general sense either.”

“I don’t care if he’s a genius, I won’t let him get near her.”

The two servants seem surprised by the conviction in his tone, but neither comment on it. Instead, Lumiere produces three letters from the inner pocket of his brown vest and places them on the prince’s bedside table.

“These arrived this morning, Master,” he explains quietly. “One from your uncle and one from the princess of the province due east from here. I did not recognize the seal on the third…”

The prince nods, finding himself suddenly much more aware of the pleasant warmth surrounding him. His eyelids droop slightly. “Thank you, Lumiere,” he yawns. “But, I think I’ll rest a while longer today.”

The lanky gent shoots the prince a teasing smirk as he moves towards the door. “Of course, Your Highness, _au revior_ ,” and he takes his leave.

Yawning again, the prince glances at Mrs. Potts with bleary eyes. “Was there anything you needed to tell me?” He asks her drowsily. She nods, moving over to the edge of the bed and gently sitting beside his feet, unnecessarily smoothing her apron once she’s seated. He’s very tired, but he knows something must be bothering her, so he forces his eyes to stay open. Partly out of respect and partly because he cares about what she has to say.

“I worry, sir,” she murmurs.

“To be frank, that’s nothing new.”

She fixes him with a halfhearted glare which dissipates when she sees his tired smile. Sighing, she continues. “Cogsworth mentioned the project you two worked on last night. Did you learn anything about her from your mother’s old letters?” she questions.

He frowns, remembering the stay of old parchment on his study desk. “I haven’t read through them. We were skimming them for specific terms, but seeing as Princess Astrid has sent me a letter personally, I may be able to glean more than I hoped,” he tells her, but he remembers her implication from their conversation in the hall last night, and his mind latches on to a wayward thought of its own. “You mentioned that my mother and Princess Elise were friends,” he says slowly. She fixes him a scolding look for his eavesdropping. “I don’t remember being affectionate towards a baby princess,” he continues softly, confused by the story she had told Lumiere.

Her snowy-silver head bobs gently. “Princess Elise and Queen Adeline were thick as thieves. She ran the province east of here very well during her reign, but I’d say Princess Astrid fills her shoes well enough, all things considered. Though it’s still such a shame how Elise and Prince Maurice were killed,” she says forlornly. “You met Elise’s daughter when you were two and a half, perhaps closer to three. She was a few months old at the time. You only met the child once, but you two were quite taken with each other.”

He frowns. “Why? If my mother and Princess Elise were such good friends, why didn’t I know the girl? Why didn’t they pounce on our agreeability?”

She lets out a heavy, weary sigh, one that tells him she’d been expecting his question. “You two got along _so_ well as children,” she says wistfully. “The baby - Belle was her name - she usually had such a pleasant temperament, but every now and again she’d get very upset without obvious cause,” she continues. “When you, your mother, myself, and Lumiere, arrived at Princess Elise’s castle, Baby Belle was having one of her fits.

“Elise was positively distraught. She thought she was failing as a mother or somehow hurting her only child without realizing it, but neither her, nor your mother, could figure out what the matter was with the child,” Mrs. Potts shakes her head softly, smiling at memories he cannot see. “Elise had put the girl on a fur rug between the two sofas, too upset to continue having the girl’s cries directly in her ear. You’d been sitting next to Lumiere on one of the sofas with your hands over your ears and a pout on your face. It upset you that Belle was sad and no one could calm her. You told Lumiere that she was too pretty to cry like that and asked him how to make her stop.” She chuckles again. “Sweet boy,” she says, smiling at him. He smiles back. “Eventually you got tired of all the noise. There were servants running about in the halls shouting and clamoring around. Last minute preparations for some ball or another. You couldn’t stand all of that on top of Belle’s cries, you told us later. So you got up, marched your frustrated little self to the door, and slammed it shut as hard as you could.”

His eyes go wide. “I’m amazed I don’t remember getting a bruised rear for that,” he says, shocked.

Now she grins mischievously at him. “You slamming the door made Belle quiet,” she tells him smugly. “She was sensitive to all the noise, more so than most babies, and she needed the ruckus from the hall to stop. The door slammed, she flinched because it surprised her, but then everything was quiet.” She sighs again. “I can still remember how surprised you were when that quieted her. You went over to the rug and lay beside her so she could see you. Then you asked her if she was happy now. She cooed at you, and with her lips covered in drool, tears, and snot, she pressed her little face into yours and gave you a baby’s version of a kiss.”

He grimaces halfheartedly. “I’d hardly count that as my first kiss. Babies don’t even know how to kiss that young,” he huffs indignantly.

She rolls her eyes at him. “They can’t kiss properly, no. They haven’t learned to pucker their lips. But if a baby is kissed and shown affection early on then they will return it as best as they can quite young. Or even initiate it. Elise was a very affectionate mother, and Belle decided you deserved a reward for quieting the room.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “You’re just making fun of me now. All because I was kissed by a slimy baby and don’t remember it.”

She smirks. “If you believe so, Master.”

The happier atmosphere fades slightly. And he knows it will be destroyed with his next question. “Lumiere said they presume her dead,” he mumbles. “Did they really never find her?”

Mrs. Potts gives him a sorrowful look. “She disappeared without a trace. No one has seen her. The only person still convinced she’s alive is Astrid, and most think her mad for believing so.”

He nods solemnly, noting that the Beast had fallen oddly quiet in the back of his mind. Even if he wasn’t going to comment or push an impulse into the forefront of the prince’s mind, usually his other side was not sitting so far back. It was almost as if he were waiting for something...The prince sighs, ignoring his mercurial mental companion and returning his attention to Mrs. Potts for one last question. “What did she look like? The baby?” He murmurs.

“She was absolutely beautiful, but I suppose most babies are. Most of her features were rather common, but she was too lovely to be plain. She had dark brown hair and her skin was a very flattering shade of cream. Smoother and lighter because of her youth. Oh, and those eyes,” she sighs, lost in memories once more. “Those beautiful eyes...”

And suddenly the Beast is slamming into his thoughts with enough force to startle the prince. Not growling or snarling, but annoyed and impatiently glaring at the prince. He’s waiting for something, but the prince is afraid of just what that might be. He glances at Mrs. Potts, who has stopped speaking. “Her eyes?” he questions slowly. “What color were they?”

“The most wonderful shade of hazel,” she says wistfully.

And with that pleasant sigh Mrs. Potts manages to drive away every drop of warmth in the bed around him. Icy anxiety seeps into his skin and he can feel his hands shaking against Beauty. When Mrs. Potts glances up from her lap worriedly, he knows she can feel it through the mattress.

“Master, what-”

“Her eyes,” he manages to say weakly. “T-they’re hazel. Burning, swirling, golden, _hazel_.”

He wants her to tell him to calm down. To assure him that he is overreacting, jumping to conclusions, or too tired to think properly. But she doesn’t. Her broken, shocked stare leaves him feeling hopeless, maimed, and scared. He knew the rumors surrounding the ‘lost princess’ and not a single one of them was optimistic. Now it seemed that the answer to all of his problems, his only hope at breaking the curse, was just another set of headaches. Albeit, a beautiful set of headaches.

Mrs. Potts swallows thickly, obviously in a rare position where she doesn’t know how to console him. She goes for practicalities instead. “Adele left the medicine on your night stand last night; I moved it to the table by the fire. Your tea is there as well, along with a few small sandwiches and some biscuits,” she says absently. “Don’t hesitate to send for us when she wakes. I’ll let you sort through your thoughts...” She rises and looks as unsteady as he feels. He’s blinking back angry tears when the door clicks shut, but he hadn’t thrown a temper tantrum since he was fifteen and he refused to do so now. He wouldn’t revert back to pissing and moaning just because there were once again situations in his life that he couldn’t control.

Cursing softly, he forgoes his earlier plan to get more sleep and begins to slowly detangle himself from Beauty. He starts with his toes, finding it easier to meticulously complete the task at hand than to organize his thoughts. Once her feet are separate from his own, he moves one leg out from under hers. Then the other. Soon he’s at their torso gingerly trying to slide out from under her. For a few moments he’ in an awkward position, half bent over his bed and half kneeling on the mattress as he tries to gently pry his arms out from under her. After what feels like an eternity, he’s finally free.

Straightening slowly, he feels his back pop in several places, likely from the odd positions he’d slept in while having a bedmate. But the sensation isn’t unpleasant and he purposefully pops a few more joints, stretching until he feels his blood flowing more effectively.

Almost as an afterthought, he picks up one of the letters on his nightstand. He chooses to read his uncle’s and Princess Astrid’s letters later. He’s more concerned with the letter whose sender Lumiere couldn’t identify. Picking up the thin envelope, he looks at his name on the front. The feminine font has his name depicted in a bold, black, elegant script. He flips it over, staring wide eyed at the wax imprint of a rose. Certainly this letter wasn’t from…

He gently breaks the seal. With a few pages parchment unfolded and smoothed, he begins to read.

_Dear Prince Adam,_

_I apologize for the delay in finding her. She’s been hiding quite well from the idiot who’s after her, which made her difficult to find, but for now, you needn’t think of him._

_I write to offer you advice for dealing with this girl. By now I’m sure you have noticed how The Beast has responded to her. I realize that the curse originally intended for you to tame and resist those less attractive impulses from that aspect of your personality, but now you must learn to merge the two. The Beast’s instincts will, in some ways, be the key to earning this girl’s trust. You may think you need to coddle her because she’s a victim of violence, but time is not on your side. You’ll have to take a less compassionate approach, I’m afraid, but the results will be the same._

_Though the dreams I sent her, I planted the seeds for her broken soul to love yours, but she’s going to be a challenge, Adam. She’s full of fear, anger, regret, and sorrow. You know better than anyone how those feelings can cloud one’s judgement. She’s not always rational, but she’s extremely clever. Be patient, but firm. She needs structure, security, and authority, but she doesn’t realize how damaged she’s become without those things while on the run all these years._

_Your suspicions are correct, Adam. She is Elise’s daughter. You’ll learn the true story of what happened to the girl in time, but understand this: She has been running for her life, her freedom, for almost as long as you’ve been cursed. She’s a good liar and at this point the choice to lie at every opportunity is ingrained in her. The Beast will know whether she’s being truthful or not. Trust his judgement, but try to keep ahold of that temper. Maybe find another way to express it aside from destroying furniture and shouting._

_If you need my help, send me a letter. Your message will reach me if you throw it into the fireplace of your study. If I see that things will not go smoothly without my interference then I will reply. If you are going to be fine, then I won’t._

_Remember. Beast is the key to the girl. Belle needs structure, security, and authority. Beast will know when she’s lying. Find a new way to express your anger. Write me. Study fireplace._

_It may also aid you to know that Astrid is keeping Belle’s secret. She can keep yours too._

_Good luck, Adam,_

_“The Enchantress”_

He snorts softly at her sign-off and returns the letter to it envelope, briefly wondering what her real name is. But he doubts that she would actually tell him. And what about Astrid? Shaking his head to clear it of thoughts and questions, he makes his way to the washroom determined to distract himself with his morning routine.

A fresh bowl of water and a clean towel await him on the countertop, but he bypasses them after noticing that there’s also steaming bath waiting for him. Mrs. Potts must have prepared it before he woke up. He would thank her later.

He makes quick work of washing himself, wrapping up in a warm fuzzy towel when he’s finished. Using the smaller towel and bowl on the counter, he washes his face and performs other necessary morning hygiene habits respectable men adopted, such as cleaning his teeth and shaving. Then he makes his way to the closet, gently drying his more sensitive bits once he’s inside. Once sufficiently dry, he plucks items from shelves and begins to dress. A shuffling sound from outside his closet door makes him freeze while buttoning his trousers, but he recovers quickly. Grabbing a white button down shirt and throwing his arms into the sleeves, he makes his way back to the main room. And just in time too.

She’s sitting up, her eyes squinting in pain as she rubs a temple, likely from a migraine. He remembers Mrs. Potts telling him that she must have fallen off her horse yesterday. Perhaps she hit her head on something.

Ignoring his worries for the moment, he silently makes his way to the end of the bed as she lets out a pained groan, waiting for her to notice him. It’s mere seconds before the only sound in the room is light ruffle of his shirt as he buttons it with patient fingers. Her hazel eyes flick open and land on his amber ones, growing humorously wide. He can’t help but give her a small smirk.

“Hello, Beauty.”

**Yes, I just did that to you. I couldn’t resist.**

**Don’t worry though; I’m pretty sure I’d have to go through a lot of trouble to end every chapter with that line. I don’t like going through a lot of trouble.**

**I know it can be a pain, but taking those few extra moments to give me your thoughts will help me update sooner. Right now my readers on fanfiction(dot)net are pulling all the weight for this fic.**

**See you next chapter,**

**-LMK**


	3. Premier Repas

**All French used in this chapter is explained as you read.**

**Chapter 3: _Premier Repas_**

**Songs: La Belle et La Bête (2014) Soundtrack; “Done With Love” by Zedd; “Demons” Cover by Jasmine Thompson; “Without You” Cover by The Piano Guys**

“Hello, Beauty,” he says, unable to keep a hint of smugness out of his tone as he takes in her shocked expression.

He finishes buttoning his shirt while she stares at him silently. The Enchantress’s warnings are still fresh in his mind as he calmly observes her. He knows that he will have to adopt some qualities of the Beast back into his personality to accomplish the task ahead. Though as he watches her, and as the Beast rouses to acknowledge her presence, the prince realizes that the task ahead of him may not be as difficult as he thought. And as he relaxes his mental barriers, a peaceful sense of resoluteness washes over him. The patience he spent years cultivating is still there and the unrelenting anger is still gone. The last time he felt this in control of his life was prior to his parent’s deaths, and he finds confidence in his own self-control.

Beauty swallows thickly, coming out of her shocked trance. Despite all he knows about her, for some reason, he expected her expression to be innocent, her eyes doe-like, but she surprises him. Even though she is clearly weakened by sickness, she holds herself as a queen would. Chin level, her gaze certain and eye contact unwavering. Her hand moves away from her temple to rest in her lap with its counterpart as she sits up straighter, hiding her fatigue behind a wall of confidence and a stubborn set to her shoulders.

His smirk quirks up a fraction. _You’re a willful little thing aren’t you?_ He thinks to himself, suppressing a genuine smile. _I like you._

“Good morning,” he says smoothly, breaking the silence.

“Good morrow,” she replies, her voice clearer than it had been during the night. But she’s hesitant and pronouncing each word with care. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices her throat move as she swallows again. _You’re thirst, yet you’ve wasted all this time having a staring contest with me instead of asking for a drink._ He cocks his head slightly, chuckling softly and shaking his head. _Curious thing._ There’s another beat of silence.

“How do you take your tea, _mademoiselle_?” He asks gently.

She blinks in mild surprise but recovers quickly and answers him. “A dash of cream, two sugars,” she says. He gets the sense that every answer she gives is carefully constructed in her mind before she speaks, almost as if it’s all rehearsed. He briefly wonders if she’s lied to him just now, but all he senses is honesty from her untrusting frame. _Curious…_

He turns away from the oddity on his bed to focus on the tea materials waiting on the table in front of the fire. He takes care to remember her as he makes them each a cup and is comforted by the fact that they like their tea similarly, the only difference being that he doesn’t take any cream. With a steaming drink in each hand, he walks over to her side of the bed and passes her a china teacup before perching himself on the edge of the mattress. There are a few feet between them with her sitting up beside the pillows and him resting against one of the bedposts, but there is still enough tension radiating from her for him to pick up on despite the distance. It amuses him greatly.

“You were happier to see me when you thought I wasn’t real,” he comments offhandedly.

She takes a sip before she answers, but keeps her eyes trained on him through her lashes as she does so. “Dreams are safe places,” she says quietly, holding her hands and cup in her lap. “No one is actually with you in a dream. You can say and do whatever you want without judgment.”

Her reasoning is mostly sound and he agrees with her logic but decides to challenge her for the fun of it. “You don’t always get to decide what you dream,” he points out. “Nor can you choose _when_ you dream.”

She shrugs and he can tell she’s refraining from saying something. “That’s usually what people tell me.”

He lays his head back against the post and studies her for a moment. “You are not what I expected,” he admits softly.

Naturally, she eyes him quizzically. “How so?” She prompts.

He smirks, exhaling out of his nose in a half-laugh. “You’re calm, for starters,” he says. “Not to mention you’re obviously full of good sense. Or you’re good at pretending to have the sense to string together intelligent thoughts as you have. You’re confident…or pretending to be,” he softly snorts again. “My Dear, I was expecting a _girl_ with a mirror, not a _woman_.” The soft rosy tint to her cheeks darkens slightly and her reaction makes him feel as though he’s won something.

“Well,” she mutters. “I was expecting someone spoiled, pompous, and positively primeval. So if it’s any consolation, we were both lied to.”

He hides a grin by taking a sip of his tea. “Why on earth would you traipse around the provinces on your horse looking for a spoiled brat?” He asks, humor lacing his tone.

She shrugs again. “I was told there was an orphaned boy in dire need of a companion and I was promised several things in return for finding him. One of those things was the mirror,” she tells him. “It was given to me partially as a way for you to identify me, but mostly to aid me.”

“Aid you with what?” He asks.

She purses her lips. He knows he will get no answer.

“Fine,” he says calmly. “Don’t speak of it, but I assume it’s the man you spoke of last night, the one who is trying to find you?” The only response she offers him is a stiff nod. “At the very least, allow me to inform you that my guards are very well trained and currently have orders to take any unauthorized persons found on the grounds directly to the dungeons until I can make time to deal with them,” he explains. “You are safe here,” he swears, holding her hazel gaze. “And I endeavor to keep you that way.”

A small quirk tugs at the edge of her lips as she eyes him with disbelief. “Planning to keep me, he says,” she mutters as if she were of a higher rank than he. “And, what ever will you do, prey, to _keep_ _me_ should I desire to leave?” She asks.

“Let you go,” he answers.

The air of teasing leaves her features immediately. “Even though you were promised my company?” She questions.

He gives her a depressed sort of smile. “I would never dream of forcing you to stay here against your will, Beauty. If you do not wish to be here, regardless of how much I do hope you will stay, I would only insist you delay your departure until you were in better health and fully supplied.”

She studies him for several moments. Her expression is torn between relief, confusion, and a hint of fear. It is the last emotion he reads in her eyes that makes him question her thoughts.

“You are not what I expected,” she echoes.

He smirks again and some of the intensity of his honesty fades from his features. “We already discerned that we were lied to.”

Now she laughs softly through her nose. “I suppose,” she says quietly. Then she turns thoughtful. “Prince, Marquis, or Comte?” She asks.

“Prince,” he replies, not bothering to hide his surprise that she’d picked up on that detail so quickly. He wasn’t wearing anything overzealous or pompous…

“Blood or title?” She inquires next.

“Blood.”

She hums, satisfied. Yet he is anything but.

“If you weren’t told of my status when you were given your quest, how did you come to the conclusion that I am of significant rank?” he inquires.

She smirks and once more he gets the sense that she’s withholding information from her response. “Let’s just say that in my travels I have acquired a skill for recognizing those with power. Not to mention the elegance of your furnishings.” She briefly flicks her eyes around the room, acknowledging the modest splendor. “Admittedly, it is slightly harder trait to detect in those who do not want it, such as yourself,” she explains, returning her gaze to his own.

He raises an impressed brow. “And how, pray tell, did you come to that conclusion?”

Her smirk falters for half a second before she manages to tightly keep it in place. “Lucky guess,” she says, feigning playfulness, but her slightly strained voice gives her away.

And that was the first lie she told him.

*-*-*

After tea, the prince informs his guest that Mrs. Potts and Madame Adele Armoire will function as her handmaids while she is at the castle. The two women are pleasantly surprised to be summoned and instantly shoo away their master so that they might help the girl bathe and dress for the day. He’s equal parts thankful and disappointed about being separated from the castle’s newest addition, but he realizes that he needs a few moments to organize his thoughts and develop a strategy for the months ahead.

_Though the dreams I sent her, I planted the seeds for her broken soul to love yours....She’s full of fear, anger, regret, and sorrow...She needs structure, security, and authority…You may think you need to coddle her because she’s a victim of violence, but time is not on your side. You’ll have to take a less compassionate approach…_

He sighs as he aimlessly wanders the halls, pondering the letter from the Enchantress. How many nights had she spent her sleeping hours with a fantasy of himself? How is he to make her safe and content? What sort of structure is within his rights to force upon her? He is not her father, nor her husband, therefore he is without the ability to demand or coerce her into compliance. But she said not to coddle the little beauty nor fear lacking compassion?

He runs a hand through his hair and gently grips the roots but does not tug at them. He more or less anchors his hand in a mess of strawberry blonde waves, idly massaging his scalp as he wonders and wanders. It’s on his second lap around the first floor of the East Wing that he realizes he’s ignoring the Beast’s input again. And for the second time that morning he forces himself not to compartmentalize the other side of his personality. To his pleasant surprise, the Beast has his answers. And the prince makes his way toward the kitchen filled with a sense of purpose while the large clock in the entry hall echoes its eight chimes around the castle.

They arrive at his private dining room simultaneously. She, led by Mrs. Potts, and he, mildly surprised to see her up and about. He shouldn’t have been, since it was his idea she come down to break fast with him, yet he was still caught off guard. They dressed her in a simple yet elegant gown of periwinkle. The sleeves and outer skirt are trimmed with ivory lace, while the bodice and underskirt are a smoky light blue trimmed with small ivory pearls. While her waist is much too thin, the dress manages to hide most of her slimness since the sleeves fan at her elbows and the skirts gently drop from her waistline. He had asked Mrs. Potts to put her in something comfortable and light, but he hadn’t expected something quite so complimenting. He wonders where they found the unfamiliar dress.

Having entered from opposing doors, they met in the middle of the room next to the table. Mrs. Potts had led Beauty from the West Wing to the room they now inhabited and politely excuses herself after depositing her charge with him. The periwinkle princess before him has her poker face on, but he’s smiling patiently, inwardly eager to put his plan in motion.

“How are you feeling?” He asks softly.

“Much better, thank you,” she replies coolly. He ignores her attitude.

“ _Marveilleux_ ,” he says. “I’m afraid that given the excitement of your arrival, I have forgotten my manners, my dear,” he smiles charmingly. “You already know my name of course, but I neglected to inquire upon yours.”

A small sarcastic smirk tugs at her lips while one eyes brown quirks upward. “Do you no longer fancy the moniker ‘Beauty’?” She questions.

He grins back at her, enjoying her playful behavior. “Oh I certainly continue to fancy the term, rest assured, and I fear my thoughts may never refer to you any other way.  However I realized that you might prefer I use your given name. You cringe slightly when I call you ‘Beauty’,” he replies.

Her eyebrow twitches higher as her smirk fades. “How observant you are, Your Majesty.”

“Only when presented with something which so very truly deserves my most committed attentions.” He holds her gaze steadily as he says this, watching the confusion swim through the golden dust of her irises. “My sincerity surprises you,” he accuses.

“You barely know me,” she says.

He hears the kitchen doors open behind him and several sets of shoes tap against the marble floors, drawing near. “We both know you are not here by accident,” he replies as he offers her his arm. She takes it hesitantly, but allows him to turn her around and lead her to her seat. “I hoped we’d discuss this topic over our meal, as it happens. I’m certain you’re curious as to how this will…play out, so to speak?” He assumes.

She nods as he releases her to pull out her chair. Once she’s seated, he gently scoots her forward and gives her a small smile before walking the short distance to his side of the table. He idly notices that the tablecloth matches the ivory lacework and beading of her dress while the kitchen staff set the table. The color looks wonderful against her ivory skin.

Chef Alphonse, a slightly portly fellow with silver-peppered black hair and a matching mustache, bows to the prince once the table is set. After he bids them a pleasant morning, he disappears back into the kitchen with his staff trailing behind him.

They lapse into silence as they serve themselves. The prince helps himself to _l’œuf sur plat_ , _le saucisse_ , and _le croissant_ , while subtly taking notice of his guests morning bounty. Compared to his fried eggs, sausage, and croissant, she has nothing. Four pieces of fruit, two slices of bacon, and one boiled egg don’t even take up half of the room on her plate. It’s no wonder she’s so tiny. But before he can comment, Mrs. Potts appears with her tea cart. She observes Beauty’s plate with a well concealed frown as she makes him his second cup of the day. He murmurs Beauty’s tea preference to her when she sets the steaming china beside him, earning himself a fond smile.

“Elise.”

Both he and Mrs. Potts glance across the table at Beauty, who is aimlessly moving a grape around her plate with her fork. She speaks again before either party can prompt her.

“You asked for my name earlier. It’s Elise.”

He tries not to make a face as instinct and common sense scream at him that she’s lying. Mrs. Potts hides her suspicion behind a motherly smile. “And what a beautiful name it is, dear. We’re most pleased to have you with us, and certainly pleased that you’re up and about,” she says fondly instead.

 _Elise_ \- he forces himself not to roll his eyes- smiles bashfully and thanks them for their hospitality as Mrs. Potts presents her with tea as well.

“Mrs. Potts,” He says after a thought.

She pauses just before she stats to push her cart away, eyeing him curiously. “Yes, Master?”

“If you happen to venture up to the West Wing before I return to it, would you be so kind as to bring down the letter on my nightstand with the rose-shaped seal? It is the only letter I opened this morning, so that should make it simpler to find. It’s from a dear friend of ours. I’ll need to speak with the servants about at some point today and I don’t wish to forget to do so,” he explains as he slices his sausage link into bite sized pieces.

“Of course, Sir. I was about to make a trip to that wing to get a few things from storage. I’ll inform Cogsworth so that he may alert the rest of the staff of your intent to address us later today,” she declares, giving a slight curtsy. “Have a pleasant breakfast, sir,”

“Thank you, Mrs. Potts,” he calls over his shoulder as she leaves.

Silence resumes over the table once more. Beauty keeps her eyes fixed on her plate as she nibbles on her fruit while he watches her shamelessly. He looks down once to find his plate clean, but keeps flicking his gaze back to her as he refills it. When he’s halfway through his second helping, he’s too irritated to keep quiet.

“ _Mange_ ,” he half-sighs, half-growls.

Her honey-colored eyes flick up to his as they shimmer with defiance. “I am eating,” she retorts, her voice quiet and low with irritation.

He raises an annoyed brow and leans against his chair. “I know for certain you haven’t eaten in at least twelve hours. You can not tell me you aren’t hungrier that you’re behaving. Honestly, a handful of fruit, a few strips of bacon, and a boiled egg aren’t even enough food for a _toddler_ ,” he huffs. “Beautiful you may be, but a healthy weight most certainly _are not_.”

She glares at him and he narrows his eyes in return. Several more beats of silence pass between them.

“Eat,” he repeats, gentler this time. Holding her glare with his, she daintily cuts her egg with the edge of her fork and lifts the piece of white and yolk to her lips. His gaze softens as she chews. “Thank you.”

She shifts her glare back down to her plate and ignores his comment. He suppresses a sigh at her willfulness. _And Mrs. Potts thinks_ I’m _stubborn…_

He ends up finishing his second helping before she finishes her first. Her slow pace confuses him slightly, but he doesn’t comment even as the clock chimes to signal that they’ve been dining for nearly an hour. She’s eating steadily, albeit slowly, but that doesn’t upset him as much now. He’ll sit with her until lunch if it means she eats a decent amount of food.

“Will it bother you if I address some concerns while you finish your meal?” He asks patiently.

She finishes a sip of tea before she responds. “No. Silent meals are unnerving at best and downright ridiculous at worst.”

He suppresses a smile. “The rare guest from my usual circles only ever gossip over meals and save intelligent conversation to be discussed over tea or whiskey. We would have spoken this entire time if I had known we shared the same opinion on how to dine with company,” he informs her. She eyes him with mild impatience as she spears a piece of fruit with her fork.

He takes a moment to make sure he hasn’t separated the Beast from himself again – which he hasn’t – before he starts their conversation. “You mentioned you were promised things in exchange for coming here and attempting to be my companion,” he starts. She nods slowly as she carefully chews the grape she punctured. “Care to elaborate?”

She swallows her fruit, toying with another violet ball on her plate as she responds. “For one, I would obviously get a companion by being yours,” she mutters.

He blinks and tilts his head slightly. “It confounds me that you would have difficulty making friends.”

She ignores his back-handed compliment with an indignant huff. “I’m odd,” she mumbles bitterly. “I enjoy reading, I despise gossip. I am not tempted by wealth nor finery nor high society. I would be perfectly happy in a little cottage with a garden so long as I could afford my books or knew someone kind enough to lend some to me. I do not like to sit in one place too long, however, so I would probably tire of such a simple life rather quickly…” She sighs, glancing up at him with sad eyes. “Most people turn their noses up at me the moment they find out about the reading bit.”

“I already told you I find such prejudices ridiculous,” he says softly. “You’ll find none of that brutish mindset here. And if you do I want to know about it immediately.”

She nods absently. “It was also mentioned that I would have somewhere safe to stay,” she says, sighing quietly.

He nods for her to continue, but she stays quiet. A blush of embarrassment tints her cheeks as she chews her bottom lip. “I-I would prefer to keep the last to myself…”

A frown tugs at his lips. “Of course,” he murmurs. “Although I do wish that you’d tell me so that I might fulfill all of the promises made to you.”

“This isn’t something you could guarantee, nor would I put pressure on you to entertain such an…idea,” she sighs, setting her fork on the edge of her plate.

Switching topics, he murmurs, “How long will you stay?”

“How long do you need me here?” she mumbles back.

He snorts softly. “That’s entirely subjective,” he tells her.

And at her prompting, he begins to explain his curse. She gives him her undivided attention while he speaks, absorbing every word. He skims over the details of breaking the curse, telling her that it is something he would prefer to keep to himself while smiling bashfully. Dozens of emotions filter through her eyes while he tells his story. Pity when he tells her of his parents’ deaths. Anger when he talks of the night he met the Enchantress. Sadness when he talks of adjusting to his cursed state. Curiosity when he attempts to explain the state of the staff after sundown. And then an emotion he can not decipher when he briefly describes his daily life as a cursed prince.

He does not tell her how much he knows about her past. Nor that he knows she’s a missing princess. Nor that the Enchantress has started writing him.

“…She said she would try to ease the curse’s burden,” he states, pausing to take a sip of water. “She told me to look out for the girl with the magic mirror and that her friendship would be worthwhile.” He smiles softly. “So for the last four years I’ve been waiting, eavesdropping on gossip hoping to hear someone mention the phrases ‘girl’ and ‘mirror’ over tiresome suppers with societal elites.”

She blinks at him in shock, then frowns. “Well…I’m sorry your wait was so long, Your Highness,” she murmurs. “I was only given this mirror a few months ago, so I could not have found you sooner even if I’d known I would want to.”

He chuckles softly. “I’d have waited double, Beauty. You’ve been wonderful company,” he tells her sincerely. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.”

She offers him a small smile, but there’s insecurity in her eyes. “Same to you, Your Highness,” she pronounces with a forced tone of cheerful politeness.

She reaches for her tea cup; he raises his glass of water to her with a wink and a smile, which she returns a little more naturally. But before the cup reaches her lips, her eyes drift over to the windows, and in a tone that would have been too low for anyone without his heightened senses to hear, she mutters “We’ll see how long that sentiment lasts…”

He’s careful not to let his expression show that he heard her, but confusion cartwheels in his mind as she resumes eating. In total, she’s managed to eat a decent serving of fruit, several slices of bacon, a biscuit with jam, and she’s currently on her second hard-boiled egg. He’s comforted by how much she’s eaten, but desperately wants to know why she hesitated to eat at the beginning of the meal. Was it simply her sickness lessening her appetite or has she developed a habit of undereating while she’s been traipsing around the provinces?

Shaking the wayward thought from his mind, he asks her if she’s finished, and she nods the affirmative. Standing, he walks over to her side of the short dining table and offers her his arm once more. She takes it, letting him lead her out into the halls. He has no destination in mind as he begins taking her towards the East Wing at a leisurely pace.

“If you’re tired, please tell me,” he says as an afterthought when they reach the main hall. “I would hate to stunt your recovery by selfishly keeping you up and about.”

She gives him a small smile. “I am not tired enough to lay down again just yet, I don’t think. If we were walking any faster, however, I fear I would tire quite quickly, but this pace is perfect,” she says. Despite how quite she is her voice echoes softly around the empty entryway. The repeated syllabi are pleasant to his ears.

“Let’s give you a short tour while we discuss a few more things,” he suggests, pleased by the fact that she’s going to stay with him a while longer. They venture down the East hall with relaxed steps. He waits until she’s had a chance to look around and absorb the décor before he speaks again. “I was hoping that I could ask a few favors of you,” he begins hesitantly, earning her attention. “The fact that you searched for me and came here in itself is a debt I can never repay you, but I fear I must ask more of you, my dear,” he says soberly.

She glances up at him with a puzzled expression. “I’ll do my best to grant whatever requests you have within reason, Your Highness…” she says hesitantly.

He can’t resist the urge to tease her. “You would deny your prince a favor?”

A smirk tugs at her lips, but the weariness doesn’t quite leave her brows. “Only if he were being ridiculous.”

He laughs at that. “Well, I hope you’ll hear me out before you judge me ridiculous or otherwise,” he says cheerfully. “My first request of you is that you stay within the castle walls unless accompanied by myself, Mrs. Potts, Madame Armoire, Lumiere, or Cogsworth, and that you never venture outside after dark.”

She nods silently. “Reasonable. You mentioned that the curse affected the castle grounds as well as the surrounding wood. I have no intentions of risking magical harm,” she informs him. “The second?”

He leads her away from the hall that leads back to the library. He would show her that another day, perhaps. “The second thing I ask of you is that you accept any and every gift I give you.”

She tilts her head up at him again. “That’s subjective…” she says slowly. “What if I don’t need the gift?”’

“Accept it anyway,” he counters.

“But _why_?”

They turn down another hallway, this time heading back towards the main hall, as he ponders a response. “The Enchantress did not tell me much about you prior to sending you here,” he lies smoothly, “But I endeavor to see you treated well, dressed better, and properly fed-” he gives her a slightly pointed look. “Even if you do not stay here long, or if the curse is not broken while you’re here, I want to take care of you.” He takes a deep breath and exhales it slowly. “I was only told that you have been alone for nearly as long as I have been cursed. I want to show you what it’s like to be comfortable again, to be secure,” he finishes.

She blinks in surprise when he says ‘secure’, but he doesn’t acknowledge it and she doesn’t mention it. His curiosity of her peculiar reactions to meaningless things burns in the back of his mind. Clearly the word struck a chord with her, but why?

“I’ll do my best to graciously accept any reasonable or necessary gifts His Majesty bestows me,” she answers finally as they near the entrance hall. “However I can not promise how I will react to items I do not find reasonable or necessary.”

He accepts her answer as they pass through the entrance hall again. He steers her towards the staircase. Her pace had slowed some during their lap around the East Wing, and he sees that she’s concealing fatigue. They head back toward the West Wing as he tries to decide how to broach the next subject.

“This is the request I need you to be most open-minded about,” he murmurs. “You will either be fine with the idea or you’ll think ill of me, but I assure you, Beauty, despite what I am about to ask of you, I intend you no harm,” he vows.

She nods hesitantly as she up at him through nervous lashes.

“I want you to stay in my room with me.”

She half-trips, but her grip on his arm is enough to steady her as she shakily regains her balance. He hears her heart beating double time in her chest, while she stares at him with barely-concealed panic.

“W-what on _earth_ would that possibly accomplish?” She whispers unsteadily.

Her reaction speaks volumes to him, but he tries to keep the pity out of his eyes. She can’t find out how much he knows about her yet. “I know how it sounds, Beauty, but you’ll have to trust me. I _need_ you to trust me and one of the fastest ways to build trust is by spending as many spare moments with another person as you can manage. Even in sleep…” He explains gently, frowning when she doesn’t relax. “You’re safe here,” he promises. “I’m the last person in this castle who’s going to harm you in any way…”

She looks away, blinking furiously. He recognizes that she’s trying not to cry, either out of fear or because she’s overwhelmed, he does not know which.

“You’ve had dreams of me,” he says suddenly, remembering the previous night, which now felt eons in the past to him. “I may not remember them, but _you_ do. Would that make it easier? If we stay up and talk like you said we would in your dreams?”

They’re back at his bedroom door before she lets out a shaky breath and nods. “We can try that…” she says quietly. “We can try…”

He leads her into the room, giving her a small grateful smile when she meets his gaze briefly. She takes the nightgown she wore the night before from the bed and disappears into the washroom while he removes his boots and outer layers.  Once he’s down to only his trousers and white button-up, he glances to her small pile of belongings beside the door. At some point he would need to invade her privacy and try to find out more about what happened to her, but the Enchantress had told him not to worry Beauty’s hunter for the time being, so he ignored the urge to rifle through her letters.

He wouldn’t find out how she managed to get out of the periwinkle gown by herself, but when she re-enters the room in only the thick maroon nightgown, he’s both surprised and impressed. Her fatigue is more obvious now and he smiles when she fails to stifle a yawn. But she’s confused that he’s only partially dressed.

“I don’t have anything pressing to do,” he says by way of explanation, “I figured I’d lie with you and keep an eye on your fever.”

“Mrs. Potts said it was nearly gone this morning,” she mumbles, holding the periwinkle gown in her arms.

He reaches over to take the gown from her and hangs it across one of the fireplace chairs. The blue frock she arrived in is nowhere to be seen, and he imagines Mrs. Potts probably took it to be laundered.

“It would seem so,” he replies. “But we’ll give you another dose of medicine before your nap to help it along.”

The medicine, a note, and a spoon are on his bedside table, but he notices that the Enchantress’s letter is gone. He smiles to himself. Mrs. Potts. After administering three spoonfuls to his sickly treasure as per the note’s instructions, the prince and Beauty slip under the covers. Most of the layers are still drawn back from the night before, but he pulls two up higher when Beauty fidgets with gooseflesh on her arms. They’re not lying terribly far apart, but he finds himself disappointed when she doesn’t curl up against him. He berates himself slightly, having expected her to be less open, but he is mildly upset nonetheless.

For several beats they lay together in an easy silence, each watching the other with varying degrees of curiosity. She’s radiating nervousness and fatigue. The combination grates on his nerves, but he doesn’t let it show. She’ll either cave in and speak first or fall asleep trying to pretend she doesn’t want to be nearer to him too.

“One more thing before you go to sleep…” he whispers. One brow twitches lazily. She’s too tired to respond. “Due to the nature of the curse, I know when I’m being lied to. So eventually, you’re going to have to tell me what your real name is.” He continues. Her pupils dilate with anxiety. “Don’t fret,” he purrs, scooting closer to her despite the small conflicted frown she gives him. “I’ll just call you Beauty until you’re ready to tell me the truth. We’re trying to form trust here, not gouge out each other secrets haphazardly…” he finds himself yawning and chuckles quietly. “Sleep tight, Beauty,” he murmurs, snaking his arm around her waist.

She’s asleep in seconds, burrowing into him where she belongs shortly after she slips off to sleep. He rests his nose against her hair, solidifying his new habit of falling asleep surrounded by her scent. A habit he hopes he’ll never have to break.

**Pictures of Belle’s dresses for this fic will be uploaded to my DA account. I’ve got a folder specifically for TLC stuff under the “Gallery” tab. I’ll add a chapter's dress picture before I update, so only one dress (and the handful of banners I’ve made for this fic) will be in the folder right now.**

**DeviantArt:** [ **littlemulattokitten.deviantart.com/** ](http://littlemulattokitten.deviantart.com/)

**PREMIER REPAS means “first meal” by the way, and I got the name from the soundtrack of “La Belle et La Bete (2014)”. It seemed as fitting a title as any. Plus that soundtrack is absolutely wonderful. I will probably use it throughout this fic.**

**_Comments/Kudos Please!_ I love hearing what you guys think and it makes me update faster since I know you guys are waiting on me.**

**Special thanks to those who have left kudos and comments so far!**

**See you next chapter.**

**~LMK**


	4. I'm Reaching Out to You...

**Hey guys, sorry for the delay. I made the mistake of taking summer classes on top of a part time job, which essentially translates to “I worked hard for this 4.0 and I swear this class will not take it from me!” and “Hi, can I get a venti peppermint mocha with extra espresso? Thanks! I haven’t slept in two weeks!”**

**But I didn’t forget about you guys, or Adam and Belle. I am never, _ever_ taking summer courses again, especially not freaking Accounting I during a 10 week term. I’m actually taking a term off to focus on working. Hopefully that means I’ll be writing more.**

**Thanks for all the reviews/comments/kudos by the way!**

**Chapter 4: I’m Reaching Out to You**

**Songs: “Lullaby” by OneRepublic, “Budapest” by George Erza, “Lavender’s Blue” From the Cinderella 2015 Soundtrack, “Slow Motion” by Trey Songz, “Lay Me Down ft. John Legend” by Sam Smith**

The next few days pass without incident as the prince and Beauty form a pleasant routine to accompany their new arrangement. For the most part, their time together is spent either in a comfortable silence while she reads from her small collection of novels and he replies to royal correspondences or they playfully banter while discussing casual topics. And it is because of all their quiet hours together that by the one week anniversary of Beauty’s arrival, the prince has noticed several unconscious habits of hers which speak volumes about her life before her arrival.

She refuses to speak of her past; she catches herself when she encourages his small acts of affection; her knowledge of fine dining etiquette and how she speaks less casually to him when they are not alone; her warm, gentle manners towards the servants. All of these things screamed princess, but he couldn’t let her know he knew her secret- she wasn’t ready.

He had managed to make some progress with her despite how careful he had to be around her. She had slept in his bed with him all week and was slowly relaxing in his presence, which the prince considered an enormous victory on its own. He had been prepared for her to be very heavily guarded around him for months on end, but for the most part she seemed to realize he wasn’t going to hurt her.

He was proud of her progress. She was making an effort - albeit hesitantly - to be his “companion” as the Enchantress had bribed her to do. In order to show her that he was aware and appreciative of her efforts, he had decided to reward her with the one thing he knew she’d enjoy most in the castle.

It doesn’t take him long to find her since she’s formed a habit of feeding the birds and spending time in the gardens when he’s busy with Lumiere or Cogsworth. Today is different, however. She is out in the gardens as usual… and she is feeding the birds as usual, but she’s also singing. And he’s surprised to find that he recognizes the song although he isn’t sure where he’s heard it. But the lyrics make him halt and watch her from under the archway. He leans against the cool stone as she starts it over again.

_Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, Lavender’s green_

_When I am King, dilly dilly, you shall be Queen_

_Who told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so?_

_T’was my own heart, dilly dilly, that told me so…_

He sighs as images - maybe memories - dance at the edges of his vision. He can almost hear the bubbly laughter of a baby. He wonders if maybe these are pieces from the story Mrs. Potts told him. He would have to ask her about the song.

_Call up your men, dilly dilly, set them to work_

_Some to the plow, dilly dilly, some to the fork_

_Some to make hay, dilly dilly, some to cut corn_

_While you and I, dilly dilly, keep ourselves warm..._

He quietly makes his way to one of the stone benches that’s closer to the archway than it is to the singing angel in ivory. The skirts of her cream colored gown had a floral lace overlay of muted colors and the silk sleeves, which ended at her wrists, had ruched caps at the shoulder. There’s a row of pearls around her neck and a small pendant rests just below the hollow of her throat. She looks colorful and warm compared to the thick layer of snow she’s weaving through, but cool and elegant compared to the bright red birds she feeds as she sings. She’s as beautiful as ever. A week’s worth of proper meals has done her a world of good, too. She looks healthier, softer. He faintly remembers his mother wearing a small tiara with pearls of the same color as those in her necklace. He would have to ask Mrs. Potts to locate it so that Beauty could have the complete ensemble.

_Lavender's green, dilly dilly, Lavender's blue_

_If you love me, dilly dilly, I will love you_

_Let the birds sing, dilly dilly, Let the lambs play_

_We shall be safe, dilly dilly, Out of harm’s way_

He frowns when her voice softens and lowers. Given what he secretly knows about her past, it’s obvious to him that this portion of the song resonates with her very deeply. He already cares for her more than he thought it possible to care for someone you had only known for a week’s time. How long would it be before he thought of her in terms of love? She was synonymous with the entire idea of love in his mind already. She knew of his curse and she had her own demons to hide from, which she could do much more easily while taking refuge in his castle but had the Enchantress’s words been true? Had dreamt conversations given this unearthly creature the foundation to love him? He certainly hoped so, of course, but how would he know when she returned his quickly growing feelings?

_I love to dance, dilly dilly, I love to sing_

_When I am Queen, dilly dilly, you'll be my King_

_Who told me so, dilly dilly, Who told me so?_

_I told myself, dilly dilly, I told me so…_

She’s kneeling in the snow again, depositing birdfeed and gently petting the creatures that are comfortable enough to let her. He envies them. She’s never this at ease when she knows he’s near. Even now, she wouldn’t be this relaxed with the fauna if she knew he was watching. Now that the song is over, he has only a small window of time in which to decide if he’s going to announce his presence or let her catch him red handed…

Pride outweighs his sense of mischief and he chooses the “I’m-not-doing-anything-wrong-it’s-my-castle” approach.

“You sing very beautifully, Beauty,” he says loud enough for her to hear him despite the distance between them.

She jumps, startled, and rises while whirling around to face him. The birds scatter at her sudden movement, but the brave ones come back quickly, helping themselves to the birdseed she dropped when she rose.

“Your Majesty…” she greets nervously, slowly walking towards him. “…Thank you…”

He smiles. She doesn’t take compliments very well. “You’re most welcome. I’m particularly fond of that lullaby, actually. Although admittedly I haven’t heard it since I was very small.”

He offers her the space next to him on the bench, which, like the rest of the seating on the grounds, had been cleaned of snow by the grounds crew earlier in the morning. She takes her seat while keeping as much space between them as possible, but manages to do so without being rude. It’s simply another habit he’s recently become aware of.

“I learned it from my mother,” she says after a beat and he has to suppress a proud smile. She’s never spoken of her family to him before. When he had casually prompted her about the subject a few days prior she had politely refused to comment... And even though she spoke in such a careful way that wouldn’t allow him any hints towards her troubled past, she had still given him a tiny tidbit of information.

“I see,” he says, smiling softly. “I’m afraid I cannot recall when or where I last hear the tune nor who sang it. I’m certain that even if I could remember I would still prefer your version.”

Her cheeks are already rosy from the cold, making the only indicator of her embarrassment her lower lip as it is pulled between her teeth. “I highly doubt it,” she murmurs. “But it is kind of you to say so.”

Still smiling, he stands and offers her his arm. “Do you recall our conversation about you accepting gifts from me?” He asks.

She stands as well and takes his arm while giving his an accusatory glance. “I recall a discussion about accepting reasonable gifts from his majesty,” she says slowly.

The edges of his lips quirk higher. “Yes, that’s the one. I have a gift for you, if you would so kindly come with me…”

And she lets him lead her back into the castle despite her personal reservations. However this is still his charmingly curious Beauty, so naturally their short walk from the gardens to the library is anything but silent.

“Well you have to give me a hint.”

“I do not.”

“But then where’s the fun?”

He glances down into those twinkling golden eyes and rolls his own. “Fine, you may ask me a few things but I may choose not to answer them.”

She nods in satisfaction as they round a bend. “Will whatever you’ve gotten me fit in my palms?”

In the back of his mind, Lumiere’s voice makes a snide comment. He forces himself not to snort in juvenile amusement. “No - at least - not the entire thing - ” He quickly bites the inside of his cheek to suppress his mirth, mentally cursing Lumiere’s habit of pointing out innuendos at every given chance. “ - You can hold the individual pieces, all of which function independently from the whole.”

Her lips pout in thought. “Hm...All right then. Aside from the fact that you got whatever is it with me in mind, how does this mystery gift pertain to me?”

As he answers they turn the next corner, putting them before the ornate library doors. “It pertains to you because it is something I deeply hope you will enjoy,” he says, before dropping her arm and standing with his back to the doors.

She gives him a curious look. “Blocking my entry?”

He grins. “Only until you close your eyes.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Is that so? Then if I never close them will you never be able to give me this gift?”

His grin falters slightly. Damn her for being so clever. “Please close your eyes,” he says softly, begging her with his own.

She gives a heavy sigh and rolls those golden irises before shutting her lids. But she raises her eyebrow even though she isn’t looking at him. “Well? Go on then.”

He reaches forward to gently pull her forward with one hand while pulling open one of the doors with the other. He slips them both through the door before letting it shut. The room is quite dark, he realizes with slight frown. He can see fine of course, but she would need much more light to even realize what the room was.

“Stay put a moment and keep your eyes closed,” he tells her before he lets go of her arm and quietly sprints to the windows.

He’s pleased to find that when he opens the drapes, very little dust can be seen in the air. He had told Mrs. Potts of his plan and gotten her opinion on it the day before. It would seem she gotten some of the maids to tidy up in here a bit for him. He’d add it to the list of things to thank her for.

Beauty squints even with her eyes closed as the room fills with the bright light reflecting from the snow outside. “Not sure I’ll even want to open my eyes now…” she says. She startles slightly when her voice echoes about the room.

He comes back over to her. “I certainly hope you’ll think it’s worth a bit of bright light,” he jokes, although now he’s quite nervous. All the internal good cheer from listening to her sing and his moment of Lumiere-esque thinking has turned into a fluttering feeling in his stomach.

He stops a few feet in front of her. “You may open your eyes now.”

She blinks several times as her eyes adjust to the lighting and she starts to peer around. The exact moment when she realizes where he’s brought her filters clearly on her face as her expression morphs first in disbelief, then awe, amazement, excitement, and finally wonder. He’s wringing his hands behind his back while he watches her absorb it all, but he isn’t completely certain of her happiness until she turns her attention back to him.

“This is wonderful,” she says quietly, eyes still alight with wonderment. “But you can’t exactly give me an entire library.”

He tilts his head at her, relaxing and smiling playfully. “Why ever not?”

“For starters, I am a guest not a resident. So unless this is a temporary gift…? To be revoked whenever I have or have not helped you break your curse and take leave of your castle…?”

He shakes his head. “This is most certainly a permanent gift, Beauty.”

“But you cannot _give_ me a _room_ in your castle!”

He can’t help it, he smirks teasingly at her. “I’m to be King the moment I marry, _chérie_. It’s my understanding that such a fact means I may do whatever I damn well please,” she raises her eyebrows at his tone. “I don’t recall ‘giving ownership of your library to the most beautiful creature you’ve ever met’ being on this list of things my uncle says I’m not meant to do, as it were.”

“There’s a list is there?” She inquires. “And what else might princes-who-will-be-kings-when-they-marry not be allowed to do?”

  
“Well obviously we’re not to marry harpies who dislike reading.” He takes a step nearer to her.

“Naturally.” Her lips twitch in amusement.

He finds himself grinning as well. “Nor may we truly enjoy the company of women who aren’t our intellectual equals or betters.” Another step closer.

Her eyes somersault. “Heaven forbid.”

The last step puts him right before her with only a few inches between their noses. “We’re also not supposed to kiss our companions,” he says hesitantly, watching the playfulness leave her expression. “…Unless we have their expressed permission.”

She swallows nervously, peering up at him. “And...If a prince-to-be-king did not receive such permission?”

“Then he would not act on his desire,” he says quietly. “It would be a most grievous sin if a prince-to-be-king were to go against the wishes of his lady.”

She chews her lip. “...And...If he did receive permission?” she murmurs.

He presses his forehead against hers. “Then it would be considered the highest honor he’d ever received…” he whispers back.

He can see the war waging in her eyes. If nothing else, her hesitation - rather than immediate, panicked refusal - shows him that she might not have been assaulted on the level he feared. The rumors surrounding her only stated that someone tried to force her sexually. That alone was enough to get a man hanged thanks to a law the prince’s mother had asked her husband to implement, but without Beauty communicating to him what had happened, without her trust, he would never have the pleasure of seeing that punishment carried out.

So he held perfectly still with his head against hers. He touched he nowhere else for fear that she would think he was attempting to seduce her and waited to see if she would move towards him or back away. Almost silently, she lets out a breath between her lips. Resolution filters through her irises as shaking hands come to rest against his biceps. He’d been so pleasantly surprised by her bravery that he didn’t notice she’d gotten closer until he felt her lips against his own.

He could sort of understand Lumiere’s enthusiasm now. The few brief kisses he’d had over his life were bland, passionless, and uneventful, but this one? Beauty’s unhurried, gentle pace sent fire through him in a way he never knew a kiss could. He absorbs every warm feather-soft brush of her lips against his own. He wouldn’t dream of being the first to end the moment, but he refused to deepen it either. She had to stay in control of the situation. She had to realize she could trust him…

How long passes as they stand together barely touching, he doesn’t know, but slowly she relaxes and closes that last half-step’s distance between them. He loosely wraps his arms around her shoulders as she presses herself against him. Her warmth and softness are nearly as intoxicating as her scent and he finds that there is very little in the world he wouldn’t give up if only to have her trust, to have her, to be able to get lost in the dizzying haze of vanilla laced with wood smoke and delicious lips, for the rest of his life.

It’s only been a week and yet he’s already certain he could love the broken beauty in his arms, if he didn’t already. This lost princess, this underfed damsel. What had she done to him?

After what felt like an eternity, but also felt like no time at all, Beauty pulls away a fraction, just enough so that their lips aren’t quite touching anymore. Well, unless he inhales when she exhales, then their top lips tease each other every so lightly. If he had any less self-control he’d have leaned forward and captured her once more, but knew doing so may ruin all the progress he’d made with her.

His eyes flutter open hesitantly just as Beauty does the same. Those hazel eyes that he could read so well however many moments ago were silent to him now. He’d give up a dozen libraries to know what thoughts were clouding that brilliant mind of hers, but instead he waits in silence. She doesn’t pull farther away from him so he doesn’t undo the loose bind of his arms around her shoulders and upper back.

 _She’s so small_ , he muses. But he’s comforted by the fact that she has put on weight since being with him, she’s smaller by nature. Not overly buxom, but certainly not lacking. She’s not uncomfortably curvaceous either, unless your definition of uncomfortable refers to the prickling sensation he feels in his palms when she wears a rather form fitting nightgown instead of one several sizes too large. No, he considered ‘uncomfortably curvaceous’ to be the many women of high society whose bosoms nearly fall out of their dresses if they laugh too hard, women you could bump into even when giving them clearance. The women who do their damndest to make his life a living hell at social functions.

He searches the golden eyes before him and smiles slightly. The women who are nothing like Belle.

“Do you have any idea how many libraries I would give you to know your name?” He murmurs. Until she tells him herself he can’t use it and he aches to call her by her real _nom_ before ‘Beauty’ loses its charm.

“I’ll think about it…” she says quietly. Her lips are flushed and slightly swollen despite how gentle they had been. Nonetheless, he feels ten feet tall upon noticing how the plump flesh is a slighter darker pink than it was before.

“Thank you…” he tells her. “I know you have every good reason to be hesitant, but the last thing I’ll ever want to do is hurt you.”

He aches to kiss her again, if only to prove the things he’d rather do aside from damage her emotions, but he knows he can’t. After a moment she puts her feet flat again, as opposed to being on her tip toes to reach him, and she shyly takes her hands from his arms. Reluctantly, he releases his hold around her, settling for loosely keeping her hands in his own.

“I have some letters to deal with,” he says. “I’ll leave you to your reading.” He briefly sweeps his eyes around the room. “Although I highly doubt you’ll have this issue, should you have trouble finding materials that suit your criteria please tell me? I believe the collection was last updated over a year ago, which means it needs updated again. I’d be happy to add anything you fancy to the order list.”

A light blush tints her cheeks as she nods. He places a chaste kiss on her fingers before releasing them and taking his leave. Try as he did to prevent it, the prince grins all the way up to his study while trying to name the heavy warmth that had settled into his chest.

*-*-*

It had long since been dark when the prince finally makes his way to his bedchamber. Lumiere and Cogsworth had helped him respond to pressing missives from his uncle all evening. Some of the provinces were engaging in illegal trade activity, ripping off their neighboring states by trying to sell worthless items off as precious resources. Deciding the best course of action had been such a demanding process that the three of them had eaten dinner in the prince’s study while they worked, meaning the prince hadn’t seen Beauty since the morning hours.

When Mrs. Potts had brought their dinner to his study he had of course asked about Beauty. She had informed him that Beauty had retired to his room after eating less than she had since her first day at the castle. He had done his best not to fret over the issue, but as he neared his chamber doors he couldn’t help but wonder if she was upset about the library…

The fire is very dim when he enters the room, but it was brighter than the hallway had been so he has to squint for a moment in the doorway before his eyes adjust. He pulls the door shut quietly once he can see painlessly and makes quick work of changing into his night clothes. It isn’t until he’s almost completely settled in the bed that he realizes Beauty is still awake and has been watching him the entire time.

“You’re up,” he mumbles tiredly, sinking into the pillows and mattress.

She nods and yawns, causing him to yawn against his will. She gives him a drowsy smile once he’s wiped tears of fatigue out of his eyes.

“I am,” she says softly.

He reaches for her hand under the covers and squeezes her fingers once he finds it. “Did you enjoy the library?”

Her tired smile brightens a fraction. “I did, thank you. Is anything interesting happening in the world of our resident prince-to-be-king?”

He chuckles quietly, letting his eyes droop low instead of fighting to keep them completely open. “One of the nearby princesses has taken ill and there’s illegal trade going on through the country,” he mumbles, watching her golden eyes. He didn’t know if she knew Astrid was ill, but _she_ didn’t know that he knew Astrid was her aunt.

Beauty’s face is carefully masked with mild concern, but he can hear her heart start to beat faster. He’s amazed that she can hide her feelings so well even though she’s tired.

“Illegal trade is nothing new,” she says softly. “…Which princess?”

“Astrid de Beaumont,” he replies. “Elise de Beaufremont, her sister, reigned before her, but –”

“She died ten years ago.”

He focuses on her slightly more intently and waits to see if she offers him any information that isn’t a lie. She chews her lip under his scrutiny.

“I was born in that province,” she murmurs. And while she hasn’t lied, she hasn’t exactly told him the whole truth either.

“Why did you leave?” he asks gently.

She looks down at the sheets. “For the same reason I’ve never stayed somewhere more than a couple of weeks.”

He brushes his fingers across hers. “Because that’s when he started hunting you.”

She nods silently.

He hesitates a moment before asking, “Is there… _anything_ else you’d like to tell me about before you came here…?”

Her gold eyes meet his own. They’re swimming with anxiety. “Do you think there’s something else I need to tell you?” she challenges with exhausted eyes.

He raises an eyebrow, equally as tired as she is and unwilling to truly put up a fight. “Frankly? Yes, but I think you’re afraid. I think you’ve been alone for so long that you’ve forgotten that it isn’t healthy to live without someone to trust in your life. One minute you seem to realize that my only desires are to keep you safe, healthy, and happy, but they next you take me for a fool and think I can’t read between the lines,” he mutters lowly. “I know you’ve only been here a week, but I have already learned how quick of a learner you are. You may be used to being the most observant person in a room, my dear; however I am by no means blind.”

She glares at him. “So I am to take your words at face value and have absolutely no sense of self preservation, _Your Highness_?” she snaps.

He ignores her tone. “What have I done to make you think you can’t trust me?”

Her jaw locks and she’s silent. His eyebrow twitches higher.

“I thought you might be lacking an answer for that one,” he says. “It can’t simply be my sex, as you had to have met perfectly respectable men in your travels, enough to override any false sense of gender-based evil. Not to mention you’re perfectly comfortable sleeping here with me. So tell me, Beauty, what are you more afraid of: my sex or the fact that I have political power?”

A muscle in her jaw twitches, but otherwise she’s a statue. He rolls his eyes and sighs.

“I suppose I’d prefer your silence to your lying,” he says as he untwines their fingers and shifts onto his back. “Goodnight, Beauty,” he mutters, finally giving in to the desire to close his eyes.

He’s almost asleep when she speaks, her voice soft and lacking the anger she had radiated moments before.

“Belle.”

His eyes blink open and he turns to look at her, his brain not quite up to pace. But he’s able to recognize the guilt in her expression.

“My real name…it’s Belle.”

He closes his eyes again and smiles. “Technically I have been calling you your real name this entire time.”

“More or less.”

The sheets whisper as she hesitantly shifts closer to him. He reaches out without opening his eyes and slips an arm under her to wrap around her waist. She yelps when he tugs her against him in one quick pull, but slowly relaxes against him.

“You’re cold,” he notes as her bare wrist brushes his arm. “Stay close.”

She nods slowly against the side of his chest, which is once again filled with the heavy warmth he has yet to name.

“Goodnight, Belle,” he says around a yawn.

But she’s already asleep.

**There you have it. Reviews/Comments/Kudos are super appreciated! You guys are wonderful and I can’t wait to hear what you think about this chapter.**

**-LMK**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget, my DeviantArt account is the same as my penname. The Ivory dress (with the crown Mrs. Potts has to find) is posted there.


	5. Loving Can Hurt

**Songs: “** Photograph **” by Ed Sheeran, “** Stitches **” by Shawn Mendes, “** All I Want **” by Dawn Golden, “** Young And Beautiful – DH Orchestral Version **” by Lana Del Rey**

A period of peace follows the days after Beauty’s admission of her real name and the prince can’t help but wonder if that peace would precede a storm. When letters from his uncle and Princess Astrid arrive for him at breakfast one morning, his worry heightens. Having no choice but to confront the situation immediately, he had spent the rest of the morning entirely Belle-less, to his great displeasure. Instead he remained trapped in his study composing replies while taking counsel from Lumiere and Mrs. Potts. Pure stubbornness and force of will managed to get him free shortly after lunch and he immediately left the West Wing in search of his hazel-eyed companion.

Naturally, he finds her in the library. As not to disturb her, he soundlessly makes his way into the room. She’s perched in a window seat along the back wall and from the looks of it, very thoroughly engaged in a political satire.

The last time he’d found her like this she’d been wrapped up in Shakespeare, and the time before that she’d been immersed in Beowulf. He could have sworn he’d seen The Rime of the Ancient Mariner in her hands the time before that. And it seemed to him that she enjoyed her epic adventures as much as her intellectually stimulating sarcasm.

“Feeling righteous today, my dear?” He questions gently, as not to startle her.

She smiles softly but doesn’t immediately pull away from her book. It’s only when she takes a piece of ribbon to mark her page that he knows she finished whatever paragraph she’d been on. Her eyes are shimmering as she closes the book with satisfaction and quotes “Optimism is the madness of insisting all is well when we are miserable.” He returns her smile half-heartedly, and her expression falters. “Is something the matter, Your Majesty?”

He shakes his head. “Not exactly, Beauty,” he responds. “I only worry of your reaction, but I assure you that your safety is in no way compromised by what I am about to confess.”

She sits up a little straighter, worried now, but he continues before she can panic further.

“My uncle, King Audric, and Princess Astrid need to visit me briefly so that we may tackle the rising black market before it progresses any further,” he explains.

Granted, he also needed to inform Astrid of the curse and make certain she knew her niece was safe. And he hoped Astrid could tell him the name of Belle’s attacker.

“I could leave while they are here,” she suggests quietly, worrying her lip anxiously.

He frowns. Why would she consider that an option? “Nonsense. They’ll simply stay in the East Wing and you in the West. The staff already knows to keep your being here a secret and after a few nights, they’ll be gone again.”

There’s a beat of silence while she digests his solution. “Fair,” she concedes, albeit hesitantly. “I thought Princess Astrid was ill.”

If he didn’t know about Belle’s relation to Astrid he would have assumed her expression was contemplative, but instead he saw the worry in her eyes. And while she managed to stifle it very quickly, she failed to cover up her true feelings right away.

“She was,” he says simply, keeping his air of casual conversation. “But according to her last letter she’s nearly back to full health and capable of making the journey.”

Idly, he wonders how much Belle has kept in touch with her aunt since she ran away.

Belle nods silently and her poorly concealed tension over Astrid dissipates. “Please just don’t let them find out that I am here,” she says quietly after a moment.

“They won’t,” he promises, picking up a book she either abandoned or hadn’t gotten to yet from the stack beside her. “Return to your satire, my dear,” he says, choosing the alcove next to hers. “The Bard will keep me plenty company while you finish your tale of wit and condescension."

Hours pass but he’s far too encased in Julius Caesar to notice when the maids come into the room to tend the fires and light the candles. He does, perhaps passively, acknowledge that the lighting changes as he turns page after page. But it isn’t until the soft snap of bindings being shut and a quiet yawn breaks the silence that he realizes the sun had become but a glint of gold on the horizon. He pulls a piece of scrap paper from his pocket to mark his place then leaves his bench to sit with Belle.

They’ve sat this way before - facing one another with their feet and legs touching atop the cushions in her window seat of choice - but he finds it just as idiotically comfortable today he did the first time they ended up this way. For a while they simply watch the other relax, interrupted only by a doe that catches their attention out the window as the sun finally takes its leave. It’s the prince’s attention that the doe loses first, as he finds his candlelit companion much easier on his eyes.

Drunk, either from being near her or from the contentedness on the moment, the prince murmurs, “I can see in you the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close-set bars of a cage, a vivid, restless, captive. Were it but free, it would soar, cloud high.”

Her lip twitches a fraction before she frowns and without taking her gaze from the darkened world outside, she counters, “I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself…”

_Does that make you somehow banned from the prospect of good company?_ He wants to ask her. But instead he tilts his head and gives her a somber sort of look. It’s not until he catches her eyes again that he continues, “You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope.” He has no way of knowing her thoughts when she’s like this – taciturn and depressed. His tone is gentle enough to not be overly serious, but his underlying meaning shines through; He will neither allow her to fall back into the life of solitude she lived before meeting him, nor will he allow her to be friendless while she’s with him. Surely she’s realized by now that his affections are not fleeting.

The stubborn roll of her eyes tells him she caught his meaning perfectly, and with a bitter edge to her tone, she says, “It is a truth universally acknowledged that any single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”

_What makes you believe that you could not be the wife I want?_ It’s not as if she’d given him any reasons to dislike her presence. He worried of course that he would lose his patience with her sometimes while trying to pull her out of this shell she’s learned to live in, but otherwise he has become content with the fact that he likes her beyond reason.

He gives himself a moment to think of a suitable counter argument. Their game has changed the atmosphere from light to heavy and she’s throwing insecurities at him through the words of others instead of her own, but nonetheless he is gaining insight to her thoughts. She may have been hoping he wouldn’t be well versed enough in literature to understand the words she isn’t saying. But she’s wrong, much to his relief.

Content, if not proud with the line he managed to remember, he retorts. “She tries to search her heart, but the map is old and the compass is faulty.”

Refusing to meet his eyes now, she clenches her jaw and there are a few moments in silence. He almost doesn’t hear when she mumbles, “If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me.”

He sighs at her tone, wondering why she would assume his affections were unequal to her own. He can only blame the bastard who took her parents for her lack of confidence but damning that man didn’t aid the woman before him feel more secure in herself.

“She instills grace in every common thing, and divinity in everything careless gesture,” he says after another beat of silence. He sits up a bit more and takes her hands in his own.  Though she ignores him, he gently kneads her knuckles as he continues, “Venus in her shell was never so lovely, and Diana in the forest was never so graceful as my lady when she strides through Paris.” And when she doesn’t respond for several moments, he follows with, “Whatever our souls are made of, hers and mine are the same.”

“His and mine,” she mutters almost silently.

He doesn’t acknowledge her correction. She’s right, of course, but they both knew why he changed the gender of the possessive. And aside from those three words, she’s silent. He can only take it for so long before throwing another quote at her.

“He stepped down, trying not to look long at her as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, without even looking.”

She finally turns to him with a storm of emotions in her eyes. When she speaks her voice is hard and sad, “I have known you, Masseur Chevalier, and it strikes me with anguish to be torn from you.”

“Enough of this,” he says suddenly, and before she can respond he reaches over, lifts her up from the seat and pulls her into his lap. Her cry of protest dies when he cups her cheeks in his palms. “You may think you’re doomed to the life you lived before coming here, doomed to loneliness, doomed to be abandoned by those you dare to hold dear,” he says lowly, “But as long as I am alive, you’re wrong. I won’t let you go back to constantly running unless you desire it or there is no other way to keep you safe. I won’t let you go back to loneliness. And I certainly have no intentions of leaving you behind now that I have you.”

The prince is convinced that she wants nothing more in the world than to believe him, but her trembling and misty, glaring eyes tell him that she doesn’t know how. Frustrated, not at her, but rather the damage he doesn’t know how to repair, he pulls her closer. It takes her several minutes, but her stress is released in a series of shudders and whimpers before she slumps against him.

He gently kneads the muscles in her neck and shoulders while pretending he can’t feel tears through the fabric of his shirt. Then his fingers make their way to the nape of her neck, travelling higher as they find and carefully remove the pins keeping her long chocolate tresses in a twist. When her hair finally falls, his fingers go back to work on her scalp and the occasional tangle, until eventually she relaxes.

It’s some time later when she lifts her head and slowly moves so that her forehead and nose are pressed against his own. He doesn’t say a word about her tired red eyes nor their dewy lashes. He ignores the slight quiver in her lips when she presses them against his.

But he doesn’t ignore her searching tongue or her nails as they gently scrape his scalp and claw his back through his shirt. When she begs him to give her something more pleasant to think about, he does as he’s bid, learning where he can kiss and bite to still whatever unpleasant thoughts plague her. And they stay there until the early hours, until he finally carries her up to bed, thoroughly kissed and properly distracted.

While she doesn’t know what transpired the night before, that morning when Mrs. Potts finds a scribbled note in her master’s hand stuck in the door, she turns away without disturbing them. As a woman who dearly respects her master would do, she informs the house to keep quiet so the pair can rest.

And she doesn’t bat an eyelash when they don’t make an appearance until well after lunch.

*-*-*

Over a week after their rendezvous library the prince is dressing as slowly as he dares. If he didn’t have guests he’d still be in bed or at least being much lazier about his morning. Though he had encouraged Astrid and his uncle to visit, and with good reasons, he hadn’t realized just how difficult it would be to suddenly not spend nearly his entire day with the creature he snuggled with at night.

He checks over his shoulder at said creature, who is still in his bed and silently playing with the hem of her nightdress. She hadn’t spoken much as of late. Since the night in the library she’d been quieter. They still spent most of their time together. They took their meals together. They kept each other warm at night. But it seemed she was content in finding more creative ways for her lips to communicate with him and he was more than pleased to learn the creole of her affections.

Today, however, he wished she would speak up and share her thoughts. He needed to know that she would be alright before he leaves her for the day. Astrid and his uncle would be waiting for him to arrive at breakfast any minute, but he would keep them waiting an hour if she needed him to.

With a quiet sigh, he makes his way to her side of the bed – which it was really, since it pained him to think of sleeping beside anyone else - and when she doesn’t register his presence he sits before her and gently lifts her chin. Grudgingly, she complies and looks at him.

“You’ll be alright while I’m away?”

She nods.

“And you’ll send a servant for me if you need me for any reason…”

Another tired nod.

Frowning, he sighs but bends to give her a parting kiss. She may not have reciprocated in conversation, but her urgent return of his affections let him know he’ll be missed.

“You’re bewitching me, Siren,” he accuses softly as she tugs on his lower lips with her teeth. “Let me up or I shall never leave.” She complies half-heartedly, releasing her teeth. He presses his newly free lips against her widow’s peak before drawing her close. “My uncle may try to keep me late with wine and games. I’ll not be offended if you don’t wait up for me.”

She nods against him and quietly murmurs, “Enjoy your time with him.”

Pressing one last kiss atop her head, he leaves, and as he walks the halls, realizes there was a hint of envy in her tone: Belle misses Astrid.

He shakes his head, taking the stairs two at a time as he heads for the main dining hall. He passes servants, bidding them good morning as they scurry to and fro. Aside from Belle, the castle hadn’t seen guests in quite some time, and the excitement could be felt in the air

The echoes of his uncle’s baritone and a set of softer more feminine tones bounce down the corridor as he nears the doors to the main dining hall. After opening the doors for him, a pair of servants usher him inside. He smiles sheepishly when the two inhabitants of the room turn to acknowledge his entry.

“My sincerest apologies, Uncle, Princess Astrid,” he says smoothly as they rise to greet him.

His uncle, a well-built man in his late thirties, gives him a broad welcoming grin. Dressed as simply as a king could get away with, Audric wore a fine dark purple set of trousers with an ivory shirt and a matching purple overcoat. A small cluster of dandelions in his breast pocket of his coat was the only thing out of place about his attire, but made the prince smile. Audric had never been one for the stuffiness and propriety that came with his crown. His small rebellious gestures consisted of things like random collections of flowers or wearing mismatched gloves to dinner parties and the prince admired his uncle’s stubbornness.

The prince found himself momentarily fascinated with his other guest, perhaps because he spent most of his waking hours with her niece. Astrid was so obviously related to Belle that it startled him a moment. Clearly Belle got her hair and the compassionate set of her eyes from her mother’s side of the family. Even the soft smile the princess gave him was oddly reminiscent of woman he had just parted with upstairs. Astrid was dressed in pastel peach and cream with her hair styled flawlessly. She seemed a gentle creature, yet she held herself with the grace and composure of a self-respecting queen - not at all unlike her niece.

He’d met her in person only once before today, at her coronation, or rather what should have been Belle’s coronation, but she’d been quite clearly near her limit that day. Having just lost her sister, brother-in-law, and having her niece disappear all in less than a week’s time combined with royal festivities had to have been a lot to handle, but she seemed to have recovered from the intense stress quite well.

He offers her a warm smile and takes her hand to kiss her gloved fingers. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Astrid.”

She inclines her head and returns his smile as they all sit. “To you as well, _Dauphin_. I’m afraid I was in quite a state of distress the last time we were in each other’s company…”

He waves off the beginning of her apology as he sits beside his uncle, across from Astrid. “I cannot fault you given the circumstances. Had you met me after my parents succumbed to their illness I do not think I could have shown you the same level of decorum,” he tells her softly. “You handled the ordeal better than most would have.”

Alphonse and his boys begin bringing in the food. Accustomed to such routines, the three royals aren’t disturbed by the intrusion. When finished, the kitchen staff bow and take their leave with quiet choruses of “Bon appétit”.

“He is right, my dear,” Aulric says reassuringly once they’ve gone. “We admired your strength then as we admire your optimism for your niece’s safe return now.” He pats her hand comfortingly atop the tablecloth.

The prince finds himself struggling to keep his expression neutral as a cloud passes over Astrid’s eyes. “I can only dream that my hopes are not foolish,” she says dejectedly, “And that my niece will one day return home safely.”

The prince mulls over his words carefully a moment before speaking again. “I do not believe the rumors surrounding your niece,” he tells her, holding her gaze. “In fact I find it…quite easy to think her safe, sheltered, very thoroughly protected from all threats, and perhaps even adored most ardently by her savior.”

Astrid’s eyes widen slightly in confusion, but Aulric takes one glance at his nephew and understands.

“The mirror?” Questions the King.

The prince nods once then sits back while his uncle takes charge and explains the curse to Astrid. The princess, with eyes several shades closer to brown than her niece’s listens with rapt attention and puts the final pieces together by the time his uncle is finished.

“You’re saying Belle met this Enchantress some months ago then,” she clarifies. “She wrote me around that time telling me she was perfectly safe and that I needn’t worry over her. She wrote me again some weeks ago before I took ill, saying that she might be on the path that would lead to her return home, but she didn’t elaborate and she hasn’t responded to my reply…”

The prince thinks back on the two letters Belle wrote her first few days in the castle. She’d only given one to the servants to send out, but she’d received a reply.

“I believe her most recent letter to you was when she first arrived here,” He tells Astrid. “I’m afraid I can offer you no insight into why she hasn’t replied, but she is perfectly safe, rest assured.”

Astrid accepts his answer with a quiet nod of her head and sips her water. For a few moments the three eat quietly in silence, each caught up in their own thoughts for a time.

The prince notices that Astrid and Belle eat similarly as well when the princess gently spears a piece of fruit and takes small bites as she thinks. His gaze travels idly to his uncle, who’s cleared his plate for the second time this morning. The prince pops his last bite of bacon in his mouth and wipes his face as he takes a glance out the windows. It’s bright and cold outside today, but the groundskeepers had cleared most of the pathways. Today would have been a day to catch Belle feeding the birds in the garden again, and perhaps singing as well…

Inwardly he sighs, bracing himself for the day ahead before his uncle claps his hands together and asks about the rising black market issue, effectively changing the subject.

*-*-*

The sun has long since gone when the prince finally sneaks into his bedchamber tipsy and tired. Astrid and his uncle had convinced him to enjoy a few rounds of cards with wine to spare. Astrid had wiped the floor with them both, earning herself a small fortune in the process, before they surrendered and parted ways for bed. The prince knew that Beauty would be fast asleep even before he saw the outline of her sleeping frame. Not having spent even a few moments with her throughout the day saddened him, but he wouldn’t have to join his uncle and Astrid until lunch the next day, so he hoped he woke early enough to enjoy some time with her.

Slowly, he dresses for bed, doing his best to stay quiet and not wake her. It seemed that he wasn’t quiet enough, however, as the moment he gently settled himself into bed she began to stir.

Holding perfectly still once she stirred didn’t prevent her eyes from sleepily blinking open and searching for him, but her sleepy smile once she finds him rids him of guilt.

“You smell like wine,” she whispers, burrowing herself against him.

He tucks himself against her with a sigh of contentment, then murmurs, “My uncle is persuasion embodied.”

She laughs quietly. “You enjoyed yourselves, then?”

He presses his nose into her hair, humming an affirmative.

“I’m glad.”

“Mhm,” he yawns. “I missed you terribly.”

After a brief moment of hesitation, she pulls back from his chest and surprises him by pressing her lips gently against his own. Suddenly he’s not so tired. Perhaps it’s because her tongue tastes like Earl Grey and cinnamon. Or possibly because she’s in a new nightgown - knee-length formfitting pastel-blue velvet - that doesn’t even try to keep him from feeling the softness underneath when his hands reach her hips. He nearly loses his senses when she, somehow, flips them over so that she’s lying on top of him.

But something nags at him from underneath the haze of wine and lust that brings his good sense back into the forefront of his mind. Thirteen days ago she’s nearly had a panic attack when they’d kissed for the first time. Now they were teetering on Lumiere-esque territory, and while the prince had absolutely no personal reservations about exploring such territory - sans Lumiere, avec Belle - the timing wasn’t sitting well with his conscience.

“ _Ma minou_ ,” he murmurs, pulling back gently, “Slow down.”

Her reluctance is obvious, but she relents in her oral assault with a tired pout for added effect as if it weren’t hard enough for him to stop her in the first place. For his own sanity, he moves his hands from her hips to her cheeks, which gives the added bonus of preventing her from looking away.

“I missed you too,” he teases quietly, giving her a small worried half-smile. “Now tell me what’s bothering you.”

She raises a pointed brow, daring him to rethink their current position and the question he just asked. And to be fair, he has to give her credit for trying to turn the tables on him.

_Not that kind of bothered, Minou_.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know my meaning,” he says softly and raises a challenging brow of his own. “You are no more of a fool than I am. Mutual affection, a day’s separation, and desire are not the only elements at play tonight.”

When she decides to speak after a beat of silence, her voice is strained with discomfort, “I am neither afraid of men nor sex, yet I’ve rarely desired either and have limited, unusual experiences with both.” After chewing the inside of her cheek a moment, she murmurs, “I would…rather have fond memories of my time here to look back on, should this arrangement fail, than…to move on having regretted taking you for granted.”

If she’d been any less serious he’d have laughed in surprise. “Taking me for granted?” He repeats slowly, letting his disbelief be heard, but internally he sighs. He has a feeling he’s had too much wine for this conversation.

She nods tersely and suddenly he realizes that though she’s hiding it very well, she’s embarrassed.

“Is decency in the face of socially unacceptable engagements truly such a novelty for you?” He asks her gently.

She looks away, though with his hands still cupping her cheeks and brushing against the apples, she can’t turn from him. “It may have started with the events that drove me from my home, but even when I tried to seek comfort in another’s arms elsewhere – even when they knew nothing of me but what I’d lead them to believe – it was always expected that I would give and they, in turn, would take,” she says quietly. “Yet you hardly take anything from me compared to what you give…”

He sucks in a breath as a misplaced sense of anger boils within him. He does it best not to let it show, but there’s a nagging feeling in his chest that he's not fond of. Why would she give her virtue to him now when she’s fought so hard to keep it all this time? He understands the logic behind her answer, since having control over one's sexual endeavors is no small luxury. But he was under the impression that she had little to no interest in such activities at all however, so did that mean she’d been using him all this time?

It wouldn’t be the first time a woman had tried to use him to reach her own ends. But the last (first and only) time he had been with a woman, she’d been trying to seduce her way to the altar with him. Granted this was years ago since he hadn’t enjoyed the experience enough to repeat it, but he’d been less offended by that than he was this situation.

Belle didn’t know the specifics of breaking the curse, she didn’t know it would only break if they fell for each other, but after the time they’d already spent together did she truly believe she could use his affection for her against him like this? Truly believe that he’d allow himself to be used for sex regardless of the circumstances? The prince had half a mind to roll her off him and go over to the rose in the corner. He promised himself he would never use its power to reveal her true feelings towards him, but in this moment he hardly cared. He’d clearly overestimated her respect for him and the wine in his blood wanted to know why he bothered respecting her feelings when she clearly thought it acceptable to try and manipulate his.

And to think just over a week ago he could hardly find a fault in her.

Her expression, in reaction to his poorly concealed frustration, morphs into confusion and worry. But his thoughts are spinning too quickly for him to consider attempting to be kind when he finally speaks.

"Is that was this has been?" He snaps, only just managing not to hiss at her.

She blinks and swallows nervously. "I don't follow..."

"You giving me permission to kiss you in the library, you reciprocating my affections, you..." he stops to take a calming breath, gauging her expression as he does so.

She looks guilty, but also nervous and remorseful. He can tell by how she chews her lip that she wants to talk and he motions for her to speak.

Naturally, she hesitates. He uses the lull in conversation to force them into a different seating arrangement. He’s too tired and too tipsy for the conflicting signals of his irritation and the pressure of her in his lap. Once they're both sitting up and facing each other rather than her sitting on top of him, he speaks again.

"Help me understand," he presses.

"The library wasn't..." she starts softly but trails off. Staring down at her lap, she blinks back tears furiously, embarrassed again, he realizes, or maybe ashamed. Even though he's teetering between confusion and irritation - both directed towards her- it pains him that she's upset.

"Wasn't what?" He asks, succeeding in sounding gentle, finally.

"Fake," she whispers.

She isn't lying, though he’s surprised he can tell through the alcohol, but nonetheless the fact relieves a large portion of the anger in his chest, enough for him to fully acknowledge that he's offended - perhaps more than he should be - and not simply upset with her.

"And the rest...?" He questions with a slight edge back in his tone.

"Also not fake..." she mutters, eyes still trained on her lap. “I’ve pushed many of my boundaries since coming here. Even if this does not work and I cannot help you break the curse - however I’m supposed to do that -...it has been a very long time since I've been able to enjoy a man's company, let alone...desire anything of a physical or romantic inclination..."

Though he's still struggling with a little indignance, the majority of his frustration is wiped away by her confession. "You're expecting this....arrangement to fail," he says carefully. She still doesn't look up but nods silently as he continues. "And you're attempting to make the best of it before it's gone?"

She's still and silent, he knows means he must be correct.

"Do you think my interest dishonest?" He questions.

Finally looking up, she frowns at him. "I have only ever experienced honest interests directed at others with matters such as this," she says quietly.

"So you think I have been dishonest?"

She winces and doesn't respond. It takes most of his willpower to not grind his teeth. Instead, he sighs to release the tension.

“I do not know how to explain this,” he admits. “What will it take to prove to you that I find your company enjoyable not because of a hidden agenda, but because I have come to care for you - more than I should - since you’ve been here?”

She stares at him in silence. The blankness in her eyes conveys that her lack of understanding is far too intense for him to think it exaggerated or faked even without his instincts confirming her sincerity. It bothers him a great deal that she has no grasping of how he could desire her from an honest standpoint and a sexual one, more of the former than the latter, even.

After mulling over what he said for several moments, she lets out a quiet breath that he had not noticed she was holding, and almost silently says, “Then you mean for me to believe that I am…that I am not alone in this…”

Once again it’s his turn to be confused. “In what, my dear?”

Blushing, flustered, and looking helpless, she gestures between them with one hand.

He feels his gaze shift into something more compassionate. “The bond we seem to share? How well we get on? How easy this is? – At least in my case.”

Still flushed, she nods. With a heavy sigh and an exasperated smile tugging at the edges of his mouth, he gently touches one of her cheeks with his knuckles. She leans into his hand slightly, reflexively, making his smile widen a fraction. She’s back to using her logic to assess the situation instead of her fear.

“You are certainly not alone in that,” he assures her. “And if all goes as I hope it will, neither of us ever shall be alone in that regard.”

She nods to acknowledge that she heard him before yawning. He gently takes her hands from where she’s wringing them in her lap and kisses her fingers.

“I believe it’s time we slept, _ma minou_ ,” he says softly. _Please let this discussion be over until morning..._

He nearly sighs in relief when she complies easily, and they finally resituate beneath the covers. Once she’s properly settled against him - in an attempt to prove his point - he wraps his arms around her more snugly than usual and buries his face in her neck. The action has quickly becoming reflexive in his nightly routine while a contented purr builds in his chest. He murmurs little nothings against her skin as vanilla and wood smoke gently permeate his senses and waste no time lulling him to sleep.

**Hm. This chapter was rather busy.**

**I would like to thank those who’ve reviewed/commented/kudosed so far, especially those who’ve reviewed most recently. If I hadn’t gotten those email alerts with your kind praises and stunning compliments, I probably wouldn’t have sat down and made myself start (and finish) this chapter when I did. So thank you for motivating me. I cannot express how much I appreciate your efforts.**

**Reviews, as always, are love, dear readers. And I want to know:**

**Do you think Adam handled Belle properly or did the wine make him too rash? Do you think he was justified in how he felt? Do you think Belle was justified in her actions? How do you think they’ll handle the situation in the morning?**

**_Au revoir, mes chers._ **

**-LMK**


	6. Butterfly

**Songs: “Butterfly” by Crazy Town; "Not Strong Enough" by Apocalyptica ft Brent Smith**

Though Astrid and Aulric had been pleasant company, the prince was relieved to send them off as their presence in the castle had inadvertently caused intense strain on his relationship with Beauty.

After the argument the prince had with Belle the first night his guests had arrived, all progress the pair had made in their relationship seemed to unravel. Being in a room with her was no longer unthinkably easy since he now had a habit of overthinking every move and gesture, wary of sparking another disagreement and not quite certain the last one was fully resolved. Meals were spent in a tense, quiet atmosphere and at night, they slept as far apart as his massive mattress allowed. He didn’t feel as if either of them had made a point to keep distance from the other from dawn to until they slipped under his duvet at night. They simply…did…likely because of how little they truly knew each other.

He hated it.

Mrs. Potts and Lumiere had inquired several times about their wellbeing when Belle wasn’t in the room, but he never knew what to tell them.

Sleet poured down, and in the chilled air, his sigh came out as a cloud of white smoke. His cloak and clothes were damp, but a layer of ice had built up on the soft wool, preventing any further moisture from seeping through. He could feel the weight of it increasing gradually atop his hood and along his shoulders, but couldn’t bring himself to care. It was cold, certainly. But he barely noticed it.

A benefit of his curse, perhaps.

He didn’t know how long he’d been leaning against the smooth limestone railing of his bedchamber balcony. The clouds were nearly black in the sky, as they had been since he’d awoken - alone, as Belle had slipped away sometime before him - thus there was no sun to mark the passage of time. Mrs. Potts had come up once, he knew not how long ago, to offer to bring him lunch. He had declined, truthfully telling her he still felt full from breakfast, and she’d left him be. He still wasn’t hungry, though he wondered how close to dinner it might be. And what Belle had been up to all day.

Most likely, she’d spent the day huddled up with tea and a blanket in the library with candles strewn about since there was no sunlight to read by. Some irrational part of him was annoyed that she had years’ worth of reading material to entertain herself with, that she could entertain herself for an entire day without speaking a word to him. He didn’t want her fixed to his hip at all hours - Well...unless she was wearing the short blue nightgown again, or not wearing it at all - but it would be nice to be sought out for company, rather than avoided and ignored.

Granted, he wasn’t making the first move either. And he was the socially confident one out of them both, he knew. He just wished the rift between them would fade away. He wanted to know she’d been eager awaiting his arrival when he popped into the library to sit with her in a comfortable silence. He wanted to banter over breakfast and flirt over dinner, to prepare the cup of Earl Grey she tended to drink before they settled in for bed and watch her relax as she drank it.

He sighed out of a puff of white mist again and rubbed his eyes with chilled fingers.

He hadn’t realized it was possible to miss someone you lived with, someone you shared a bed with...

It was quite possible, indeed.

Muted shuffling behind him makes him glance lazily over his shoulder. There's ice and fog on the glass panes, somewhat obscuring his view, but it would take a fool not to recognize Mrs. Potts on the other side of the balcony doors. She bustled about setting up tea beside the fire for a moment before coming up to the doors and managing to wrestle one open.

“Good heavens!” she fretted. “The door was nearly frozen shut. It's terribly cold out!” She frowns at him. “I know you won't catch ill, Master, and I told her so, but you're worrying her.”

“Belle?” He asked, his voice sounding void and dull even to his own ears.

Mrs. Potts rolled her eyes and shivers slightly. “Who else, child?”

“She hasn't been up here all day,” he says, confused.

“She's been wandering around the castle all day, dear. Said she's passed the windows in one of the downstairs hallways at least a dozen times and you've been a statue up here since the first time she noticed you.”

He shifted, taking a moment to free his boots from their icy prison on the ground and carefully stepping over to the left - his right - side of the balcony. Peering down, he noticed the windows along the bottom floor. He knew the hall; there was a long bench seat under those windows that followed the length of it. And barely visible in the edge of one of those dark windows, he noticed the faint glow of a candle. He could have sworn there was a tea cup sitting on the windowsill as well.

When he turns around Mrs. Potts is giving him a look that is equal parts patient and concerned as it is amused.

“I don't know what's going on with the two of you,” she says, stepping back from the chill coming in through the door. “But you're both lonely, hardly eating, and moping about. It's dreary enough outside without the both of you so obviously miserable.”

He frowns. “If I knew how to fix this, I would have by now,” he tells her.

“Have you tried anything? Anything at all?”

He shrugs, the weight of ice on his shoulders becoming more obvious as he does. “We had a spat, everything seemed fine when we went to sleep, then in the morning…” he trails off.

She squints in thought. “Was this while the King and Princess were here?”

He nods.

“You had to separate first thing again that morning. And a few more times before they left. Idle minds and unsettled emotions make for a horrible combination. Especially in us ladies, I must admit,” she tells him with a wry smile. “Perhaps she over-thought something, overanalyzed the situation? You won't know until you talk to her.”

His eyes flick to the windows below, his frown deepening.

“She may also be the reason I knew to come ask if you needed lunch,” she adds, clearly feigning innocence with the comment. “Might have asked why you never went down to eat said lunch. Wanted to know why you hadn't had eaten dinner either. Fairly certain she skipped both meals as well, come to think of it...”

And then she left, pulling the door mostly closed behind her as she went.

“I'll run you a hot bath, dear!” She called over her shoulder, making it clear what she thought of him spending the day out in the sleet.

He huffs out a half laugh, half sigh of exasperation before returning his attention to the dreary world around him, determined to remain surrounded by the consistent pitter-patter and tinkling of freezing rain a while longer.

Eventually, he gives in to the temptation of the bath though it takes him quite some time to peel out of his boots and remove the stiff, iced covered cloak. He leaves both in front of the fire to dry, heading into the washroom to finish undressing.

The air was thick and warm with steam. Several soft towels were on the countertop for him to use when he finished. A reasonable layer of lather and bubbles coated the surface of the water, which he approved of. That way he'd still be decent, technically, if Belle decided she wanted to get ready for bed before he finished.

Dropping the rest of his clothing in the basket that sat beside the counters, but was hidden from view when looking from the doorway, he steps into the bath with an unintentional sigh. The cold hadn’t bothered him, no, but there was nothing quite like a warm bath after spending so much time out in the cold.

He sighs again, spreading his arms around the surface space between the rim of the tub and the wall. After a moment, he sinks down a bit further, resting his head back as well.

He could remember, though quite faintly, when his father had this bathroom redone at his mother’s behest. At a glance, the room seemed to be a converted sort of short hallway. There was a heavy curtain that closed off the area that had been knocked out for the tub – reducing the suit to one closet. Along the left wall were the countertops, basin, and storage space for minor tasks of cleanliness. The hamper was in a small space between the end of the counters and the far wall. Also closed off along the back right side of the room, though by a much smaller curtain, was a three foot or so long hallway, at the end of which one could use the necessary facilities in private.

The bath, by far the largest part of the room, had the illusion of being hidden within the wall with its curtain drawn, through the massive circle of smooth limestone, with a bench to sit on, given how deep it was, could easily hold four of five people. The most it had ever held was three – himself as a child and his parents.

It seemed silly to him, at first, to fill the giant crater of a tub with water for only himself to use, but it was more convenient than making a trip to one of the smaller rooms with smaller accommodations to bathe in. And though he missed his parents quite dearly, it was luxuries like this grand tub with all its memories of splash fights and cooling off during hot summers that made him remember them with a pleasant fondness rather than the grief he’d known for so long.

But for now, he could, at least, attempt to relax. Not thinking about Belle was difficult, but he tried to set his mind on other things. At some point, while he's actively trying to think of something other than Belle, he dozes, but not entirely conscious either…

He startles, jerking slightly when he realizes someone was moving about in his bedroom. Coming back to a full sense of awareness, he remains in his relaxed position, as to prevent making noise with the water and thereby alerting the other person of his whereabouts – just in case. It took only a moment of listening for him to conclude that Belle had come upstairs.

 _Finally decide to show your face when you think I'm not here._ He frowns, not certain if he should feel so hurt by her actions. 

All he wanted was for things to go back to how they'd been before Astrid and Aulric had visited.

Only partially paying attention to Belle moving about in the main room, his forces his thoughts away from her and back to his parents. His mother had told him stories of his shenanigans when he'd been young enough to bathe with them. How relentless of a breastfeeder he'd been, no matter what they were doing. Apparently it was not uncommon for his barely toddling self to want to be fed in the bath only to drift to sleep once his tummy was as full as his body was warm. There was a day, before either of his parents fell ill, that she had teased him about marriage and future children, and warned him of having to finish bathing sleeping, still feeding, thirteen-month-olds.

But it was an unspoken truth that while the prince had long since been too old to join them, the King and Queen had continued to share this space in his absence. He wondered if there would ever be a day, should Belle be able to break his curse, that she would be that comfortable around him. Even when they were on speaking - and touching - terms she always held a level of tension, always seemed as if she were waiting for him to disregard her boundaries. To steal the carnal release she seemed to think he valued more than her trust. But she was wrong. If he wanted to take advantage of her, he'd had plenty of opportunities to do so. All he wants is for her to want to be close to him. Why, after all the weeks they had lived together, did she still not understand that?

She'd been doing so well before their argument. She even admitted to attempting to push her boundaries when they fought, or, at least, he thought she did. The memories weren’t perfectly clear since he’d been teetering on the edges of drunkenness.

His head starts to throb slightly, informing him that he’s thinking too hard and should stop before it gets any worse. Reluctantly shifting out of his laid back position, he begins bathing properly.

He exits the room some time later with one towel around his waist and another around his shoulders to catch the water droplets dripping from his hair. He didn't look to verify, but he knew that Belle was in bed. A familiar, subtle sensation ran up his spine, which told him he was being watched.

She was still awake.

He had failed to stop thinking about her even though the throbbing in his temples was more than sufficiently unpleasant enough to deter him. He tried, failed, and tried again to decide if he was going to break the ice this time or wait for her to make the first move. And if he was going to grasp the nettle, he needed to decide what to say.

He enters the closet, sparing not a single glance toward the bed, but one conflicted glance towards the enchanted rose before pulling the door shut behind him. Drying his hair more thoroughly, he reminds himself that she has no idea about the rose’s ability to tell him how a woman feels for him. She wouldn't know he did it, but it still felt unfair…as if he were committing some act of cheating or dishonesty. She had not yet been at the castle for even three months. He couldn't very well expect any substantial feeling to have formed for her in such a short time.

They had something - _that_ was undeniable. Their chemistry was like nothing he'd ever experienced. But this stretch of silence and distance had made him realize something that didn't sit well with him: he was more deeply invested in this than she seemed.

Going into this whole ordeal, he knew he had little to lose and everything to gain. He had assumed that her situation was similar, but perhaps their motivations weren't as complimenting as he'd hoped.

Catching himself, he realizes he had been staring into space rather than dressing for sleep, but if he was being honest with himself, sleeping in the closet was much more inviting than his bed at the moment. He forces himself to get dressed anyway.

Everything felt more difficult than it should have been as of late. Wasn't the hardest part supposed to be finding the girl with the mirror in the first place? What was he doing wrong? _Was_ he doing anything wrong? How did he fix this?

Perhaps in answer, a corner of his mind tugs towards the main part of his bedchambers, making him pause briefly. In the half second it takes him to realize what the sensation was, he goes from slightly annoyed and worried about Belle to annoyed with himself. Severely annoyed with himself.

“ _Putain de merde_ ,” he growls quietly, letting his forehead rest against one of the shelves before him.

The Beast.

Bidding his headache to kindly go to hell, he forces himself to concentrate. It takes longer than he wants, but slowly his instinct-based mind bleeds back into his consciousness, eliminating the throbbing in his temples as it does so. With a relieved sigh, he finishes dressing, still irked with himself for accidentally pushing the Beast back down while he had company, and impatiently dries his hair. Combing the locks with his fingers, he realizes the negative feelings he felt in Belle’s direction were considerably muted compared to before.

The Enchantress had told him the Beast would be pivotal in his relationship with Belle, but she didn't tell him that the Beast had quite a reserve of patience for their companion. That would have been nice to know  the night they argued.

 _An argument that never would have happened if I'd been paying attention_ , he thinks bitterly.

With a sigh and a shake of his head, the prince leaves the closet and surveys the room, going through his nightly mental checklist.

The fire was fine. He could hear the final sloshes of the drain as the tub emptied. The balcony was shut and locked. The door to the study was locked. The main doors were locked. All the curtains were drawn

He flicks his gaze to the farthest nightstand - Belle’s nightstand - and nods to himself when he sees the teacup lingering there. Early Grey, undoubtedly, and if she hadn't already finished it she would soon. His earlier assumption had been correct- she was awake and watching him, albeit wearily, while her fingers were wringing the life out of the edge of the top quilt.

Her anxiety in the evenings since their falling out was always obvious to him, but tonight it seemed more so since the Beast was clearly connected with the beautiful, timid woman on a level the prince couldn't consciously achieve.

He meets her worried eyes impassively for a moment before scanning the room once more. Determining everything to be in order, he makes his way to the bed and pulls down the sheets so he can settle in, all the while acutely aware that Belle has gone completely still.

Feeling more relaxed and level-headed than he has in days, he ignores her while he gets comfortable. Letting his eyes close once his head is against the pillow. Her resolve wasn't as strong as she wanted him to think it was nor had his shift in demeanor gone unnoticed. But unlike her, he had all the patience in the world tonight.

It was only a matter of time.

“Your majesty?” she murmurs a few moments later, so softly he wouldn't have noticed it immediately had he not been waiting for it.

“Yes?” He answers quietly.

She falls silent, either not having expected him to still be awake or she simply hadn't planned what she'd say to him past gaining his attention. So he waited.

And waited.

“You didn't have supper,” she says finally though it sounds every bit as feeble of a comment as he knew it was.

“I did not,” he confirms.

“Nor lunch,” she murmurs.

“Nor did you, I hear,” he counters.

She falls silent again and this time, he sighs quietly.

“Does is not exhaust you to live in a constant state of fear and anxiety?” he questions, opening his eyes to watch her expression.

She's staring at the quilt, frowning and looking rather at a loss for how to deal with where he'd steered their conversation - if one could even call it that.

She shrugs unconsciously; clearly unaware of his analyzing eyes, and finally says, “Yes. Very much so.”

“Then stop.”

Her eyes snap to his own, golden irises glaring down at him. “If it were quite that simple,” she says lowly, “Then I would not-”

He raises a brow at her self-censorship, very interested indeed with how that particular sentence would have ended.

“Then you would not what?” he prompts, his tone making it clear that he expected an answer.

Irritated, either with him or herself and likely some combination of the two, she reaches for the teacup on her nightstand and takes a reasonable drink.

“If you think this little display of temper is going to goad me into another argument, you're sorely mistaken,” he tells her evenly. “If you intend to spend your time here pouting, refusing to effectively communicate, and utterly discontented, please, be my guest,” he continues. “If, however, you'd prefer to spend your time here as you were prior to all this, meaning in a much more agreeable temperament, then it would benefit you to be a bit more complaint.”

She sets the cup down again before answering begrudgingly. “Then I would not have a reason to be here.”

“Fair enough,” he says. “We've already discussed that part of your agreement with the Enchantress to help me included protection. You've told me nothing I did not already know about how we came to meet one another.”

“If I knew how to stop being afraid I'd be home,” she bristles. “However shattered of a home it was when I fled, I'd have gone back or not left to begin with.”

“Understandably so,” he remarks evenly. “The fact remains that you are safer here than you have been since before you fled the home of which you speak. I am not one to toy with people purely for my own benefit. If I wanted to take advantage of you, trust me when I say I would have done so as soon as you'd regained your health.”

The mere thought of him committing such a betrayal makes her tense and toy mercilessly with the edge of the quilt once more.

“As it happens,” he continues. “I've done nothing but the opposite by trying to help you leave this irrational comfort zone of yours at your own pace. You just don't see that all this fear is preventing you from getting what you want, and not just in our acquaintance.”

She makes a face and lets out a decidedly rude huff. “ _Acquaintances_ \- is that what we are?” She asks with an edge in her tone.

“It's what we've been since the night my uncle and Princess Astrid arrived,” he snaps. “Though I am not afraid to admit that I'd much prefer we were more than that, but I fear that decision lies solely with you. I’ve shown already shown my hand in that regard.”

Her expression is a sea of conflicting, swirling emotions, and he rests his eyes again while she processes. Honestly, she should just lie down. There was no reason to still be sitting up. She'd feel better if she could only let herself relax.

“We couldn't follow the protocols of a traditional courtship, of course,” he says after a moment. “Your safety would be jeopardized if we tried. But I'm not overly fond of my countrymen scrutinizing my personal life, so in a safer future that fact is of no consequence to me.”

“You know nothing about my birth,” she whispers. “Even if the circumstances were different, I would not be fit for you to be associated with.”

“If you’re trying to fool me you will have to lie much more skillfully than that,” he says, yawing silently afterward.

He can almost hear her jaw tense. “I am not of noble birth,” she says harshly.

“I am not of noble birth!” she snaps.

“Another lie.”

“It is not!”

“It most certainly is,” he counters.  “You may not feel like noble birth now but I knew you were shortly after you arrived. That is to say, Lumiere shared his suspicions and I agreed with them. A peasant does not parade around the country on a purebred horse of a most pleasant disposition, one who's marvelously trained according to the stable boys, on an expertly crafted saddle, with bags as finely made as they are practical for travel. Not to mention your small collection of books, the quality of your stationery and writing supplies,” he pauses to open his eyes tiredly, watching her stare at him with poorly concealed horror. “A pleasant you are not, my dear.”

“I have no dowry,” she mutters weakly. “No inheritance.”

“That is not true either,” he says. “You can successfully lie to anyone in the world but you _cannot_ lie to me. Please stop trying; I find it tiresome and - frankly - offensive how little you trust me given the events that have transpired in this very room, _in this bed_ , since I gave you my library.”

She draws in a shaky breath, trying to regain her bearings by the looks of it. He closes his eyes again before speaking, weary of their discussion.

“I don’t care if you ever claim your inheritance or whatever other birthrights you may have waiting for you. It is no secret that I can provide for the both of us without so much as batting an eyelash, even if you developed a habit of making trips to Paris twice a season to go shopping and entertain whatever socialites you saw fit to spend your time with. You could buy every book in the world twice over and you would hardly impact the accounts,” he tells her softly, growing increasingly tired by the moment. “I don't care where you're from, who your parents were, or who you are to the rest of France. If you never want to step foot near your old home, you shall not. If you don't wish to be in sight of my - and what would be your - kingdom then you shan’t be. You could spend the rest of your life precisely as you are now or you can spend it by my side in the truest sense. Regardless of which outcome you desire for your future, our future, you will have to use that brilliant mind of yours and realize that I _am not your enemy_.”

He waits, and waits, until he’s somewhere between awake and drifting off, which, naturally, is when she remembers how to speak.

“Why do you bother?”

“I want you,” he says, the words leaving him as a slow, heavy exhale. “And I think you want me as well...but you're afraid…”

“I'm broken,” she argues, her voice cracking on the second word.

“No…” he murmurs. “Battered, maybe… a bit scuffed up...not broken. No, _ma bichette_ , not broken. Just afraid. Needlessly afraid…”

He hears the fabric rustle as she finally situates herself beside him in a position much more conducive to resting.

“Everyone I love dies,” she tells him and he can hear her tears.

Reaching out an arm that felt heavier than he knew it was, he finds the curve of her waist and draws her near for the first time in over a week.

“You are not the only orphan in this bed,” he mutters. “The guilt will only pass if you mourn properly.”

“It was my fault.”

After rolling his eyes behind the lids, he opens them, squinting through to firelight to see her face only a few inches from his own, marked with the trails of fresh tears.

“You honestly believe that,” he says. “I know you do because I can sense it, but I also know this: it does not matter if you think something is true, if the idea is false, I'll sense a lie.”

He presses his lips to hers as a small offer of comfort before continuing. “Tell me why you're afraid, so that I can figure out how to take that fear away.”

With trembling hands and no small amount of hesitation, she tentatively brushes her fingers against the line of his jaw.

“Relying on others makes one vulnerable,” she says unsteadily. “It is not simple to take advantage of someone who does not trust you. And it is nearly impossible if that person is two steps ahead, constantly on the lookout for such deceits…”

He covers her fingers with his own, pressing a kiss to her palm before speaking. “I gain nothing by lying to you,” he points out. “Losing you would be negative in a multitude of ways, now. You're my last chance at breaking this curse, but you're also very dear to me. It grows more difficult by the day to even consider the rest my life with you entirely absent from it.”

She swallows thickly, threading their fingers. “People change…”

“They do,” he agrees, brushing his thumb across the back of her hand, “But under normal circumstances, the right woman inspires a man of any station to better themselves, and we are no exception to that law of nature. You had a misfortunate encounter with a man of very low honor which lead you to have a misconstrued perception of men entirely. We are not all saints, _ma_ _chérie_ , but we aren't all madmen either.”

She nods a fraction, understanding his reasoning even though she still looked as if she felt unsettled.

“I do not want to be afraid of you,” she murmurs.

“Then work with me so that you may learn not to be,” he says, releasing her hand just long enough to brush the wetness from her cheeks. “Do you not realize that _I_ am afraid you will decide to leave? That you will one day consider a life on the run is preferable to learning to trust me?” He asks her. “I've had a fair share of courtships, but those women were more concerned with my crown than, say, my wellbeing.” He raises a brow. “I feel it necessary to remind you that this discussion began when you pointed out that I have eaten nothing today except for breakfast. And you have done nothing but argue why you think you are _unfit_ to stand by my side, as opposed to trying to sell me on why you would make a stunning queen.”

She shifts closer still, pressing her face against his chest and dropping her hand from his jaw to his waist. He moves his newly freed fingers to her hair.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” she admits softly.

He drops a kiss on the top of her head.

“Before, I was trying to work within your comfort zone to ease you out of it…” he muses. “Are you willing to try and do the opposite?”

She shifts uncomfortably beside him. “That sounds counterproductive,” she says shakily.

“The way that you deem ‘productive’ not yielding positive results, _ma chérie_. We’ve nearly come full circle all because of a disagreement over a week ago while I was tipsy,” he points out. “Let me take the reins. Let me _show you_ that your well-being is my top priority no matter what _else_ I may desire...Self-control among men is not so uncommon as you think, _ma belle_ , and I believe myself to be in possession of a bit more control than most.”

Belle doesn’t respond after that, but he can sense her hesitant acceptance of his suggestion all the same. With the Beast no longer behind his mental cage, the prince knows that come morning, his relationship with Belle should be set to rights rather quickly.


	7. I’d Fall for You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the important aspects of Adam's life *except* for The Beast start to look bright again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love and thanks to my new Beta Torry-Riddle over on FFN! Very important A/N at the bottom!!!  
> Warning: A touch of strong French (and English) ahead, for those concerned. All French will be pretty self-explanatory.

“We need to discuss a few matters of interest.”

The prince opens his eyes to find himself not in his bedroom, but in a room somewhat similar. A bedroom he’d been in before, only this time he was laying atop the ivory oak four poster instead of in the doorway.

Rising into a sitting position, he looks around and finds his fifteen-year-old self, leaning against the double doors and watching him with an irritated expression. His amber eyes glowing faintly, made more obvious by the shadows in the room.

“Beast,” the prince greets evenly. “We've done this before. Shall we skip ahead to the part where she dies in my arms and get this done with?”

The Beast rolls his eyes. “You needed motivation.”

The prince narrows his. “ _That’s_ your definition of motivation?”

Beast sneers. “My methods have had positively outstanding success rates, I'll have you know.”

The prince shakes his head in frustration, glancing out one of the bay windows beside the bed. There wasn’t as much moonlight as the first time around, nor was there a thick layer of ice over everything like there had been outside his balcony in the waking world.

“Where are we?” he asks.

“Château Beaumont,” Beast responds. “Specifically, Belle’s bedchamber.”

“Why? More importantly, _how_? I have never been in this part of Astrid’s castle.”

Beast sighs heavily. “It never ceases to amaze me that we are _la même entité putain_.”

Offended, the prince twists back around with a glare. “I’d forgotten how insufferable I used to be,” he snaps.

“I can put simple facts together and reach a conclusion, yet here you are forgetting the fact that your mother brought you to this castle as a child,” Beast retorts, unfazed by the prince’s irritation. “You’ve become such a pacifist that it's a wonder you have yet to morph into the fairer sex.”

“Manners and good breeding have nothing to do with my masculinity.”

“Is that so, Prince Charming? Because I recall our skittish little pet throwing herself at us and you denying her!”

“Have you lost your senses?!” the prince snaps. “She’s _traumatized_ and you think it would be a good idea to allow her to act on an impulsive whim?! She even explained in plain French that her actions were made out of fear of rejection rather than genuine desire!”

“She was attempting a leap of faith,” Beast growls. “Testing the depth of your yearning for her and you failed by denying her. She might have even tested your character moments later by begging you to stop, but you hadn't even gotten _that_ far!”

The prince narrows his eyes. “Belle is far too clever to employ such a backwards tactic, in any scenario,” he argues.

Beast rolls his eyes. “She is not a logical force, _cretin_ , you live with a woman who is as traumatized as she is manipulative. She may not have expected to find you when she did, but that does not mean she did not already have a plan in place for how she would behave once she found you.”

The prince stared at his younger self in disbelief. This was Belle they were talking about. Sweet, timid, reserved _Belle_.

“Are we discussing the same woman?” he asks bluntly.

Beast narrows his eyes. “You honestly believe she could have survived as long as she has if she wasn’t the embodiment of deceit? Seek a victim and you shall find one. Seek a woman who permanently scarred the man who killed her parents and you shall find her.”

The prince blinks, still wrought with disbelief, as suspicion slowly starts to seep through him.

“And you know all of this how, exactly?” He asks his younger self.

Beast sneers again. “You were rather disappointed when you learned she was dreaming of you, talking to you in her sleep. Our magical ally told you those dreams had laid a foundation for Belle’s feelings towards us, but you were more concerned with keeping me behind a cage, thus _you_ weren’t able to participate. Myself, on the other hand...”

The prince rises from the bed, furious with his arrogant, oh-so-pleased younger self. “Show me!” he demands.

Beast snorts. “When Belle stops playing you as one would a piano,” he scoffs. “Accept the truth, Charming. We are both aware that I am closer to her than you could ever hope to be.”

Nearly shaking with fury, the prince stalks over to the nearest bay window and glares out into the night rather than turning to violence, however tempting that option may be. For one, he was arguing with _himself_ and secondly, the argument was entirely preposterous. Was he truly supposed to believe a word coming from the childish fifteen-year-old behind him? Supposed to believe that Belle, the little woman who had burrowed herself into his heart without even trying, was running him in circles? She was nothing like the picture Beast had painted. She was kind and gentle, sometimes skittish, pleasant to be around, and caring. Yet the beast was trying to convince him that he slept beside an imposter, a woman who was such a thorough liar as to fool him…

“Wait,” the prince says suddenly, whirling on the smug boy in the shadows. “You sense when she’s lying. _I_ sense when she’s lying.”

Beast shrugs. “Outright, certainly” he says. “But if I let you sense every time she did something ingenuine you’d question her every move, she would know you were onto her, and she would be gone a moment later.”

Jaw clenched, the prince mutters, “The only way she could leave me would be on foot. It’s the dead of winter. She is no fool.”

Beast steps closer, raising a condescending brow. “She has you believing her to be a poor, wounded little lamb, established such a facade while suffering from a fever, and yet you _truly_ believe she can’t get around a few _single_ men who spend more time around horses than women?”

The prince grinds his teeth. “Assuming I believe even half of what you say,” he starts. “What do you wish me to do with this information?”

Beast rolls his eyes again, much more dramatically than necessary in the prince’s opinion, and again mutters, “ _The same_... _fucking_... _entity_ …”

“Quiet!” The prince snaps. “You think you’re so clever, do you? Enlighten me, then.”

“You teetered on the edge of the right idea last night, _cretin_ ,” Beast sighs. “Have a bath in the morning, Charming. I’m sure you’re capable of figuring things out from there.”

The prince seriously considers punching the haughty expression off his own face.

“Until one week ago, excluding one night of cathartic affection in the library, I could barely kiss her without her freezing in panic,” he shouts. “And you think I’ll get her _naked_ , while _I’m_ naked, _in the bath_.”

Beast graces him with a Cheshire grin. “Perhaps if you ceased treating her like porcelain, you may get touch what’s actually under all those pretty little night dresses,” he taunts.

“You’re barbaric,” the prince growls.

“Even so, if you fail to win her heart by November next, it is I who will be in control. Of course, by then, the original basis for her presence will be null, but we shall have our little wife regardless,” Beast says smugly. “You think yourself so clever. You think you managed to ‘tame’ me, yet in nine years you’ve barely accomplished separating two halves of your personality, you've divided your skills, and set yourself at a phenomenal disadvantage.”

The feeling of his nails digging into his palms makes the prince realize that he needs to relax. This was a dream. He shouldn’t be feeling pain in the first place, let alone causing it himself.

“Any more _brilliant_ wisdom you’d like to share?” He asks harshly.

“Yes,” beast says far too cheerfully. “Should you be so foolish as to cage me a second time, I assure you that I will not respond to your summons. _I_ am the key to Belle, Charming, not _you_ , so perhaps consider listening to our instincts and urges rather than plotting ten moves ahead.” His expression twists back into a sneer. “She’s insecure, Adam, not a chess board. Yes, that brute tried to steal that which is rightfully _ours_ and she’s suffered due to his insolence. But you have personal experience with the concept of an individual being willingly celibate in spite of their nearly overwhelming hunger for sex. How do you expect to break her of all those deceitful little habits if you haven’t tamed her properly?”

“She doesn’t belong to anyone,” the prince protests. “Nor is any person meant to be tamed, except perhaps _you_.”

The beast’s sneer twists into something that makes the prince decidedly uneasy.

“ _Au contraire_ ,” he snarls. “Belle is _mine_. Even if this life, this timeline, was not damaged beyond any hope of repair, she would still, inevitably, belong to me.”

“She’s a person, Beast!” the prince shouts. “She is not clay to be molded by our hands!”

“No? I’m seem to recall her as being _quite_ malleable after a bit of extended separation,” Beast purrs darkly, making the prince reconsider physical violence.

“I will _not_ treat her like an object, an _animal!”_ the prince growls. “I could care less about the sodding curse! I want her feel safe and be happy and to _desire my affection_ of her own accord! _You_ are the embodiment of my boyhood selfishness; you are the person I strove not to be! The faults I cast out! The traits which landed us a curse to begin with!”

Beast chuckles darkly. “Oh, Charming, you’ve forgotten haven’t you?” He goads. “ _We are the same_.”

Before he can respond, the prince is jerked violently from what was supposedly Belle’s childhood bedchamber and back into his own quarters. Momentarily confused by his sudden shift in surroundings and feeling rather unsteady, he claws at the sheets and tries to force himself upright. His hands are shaking, everything is too hot, and he’s mildly nauseous.

Beast had never, _ever_ behaved in such a way. The prince himself was not so impressively terrible nine years ago. Selfish yes, but _domineering_? Over-sexualizing the fairer sex? Outright cruel? _Never_. His mother had raised him better than that. Even on days where the grief had been the worst, where he had been at his worst, the prince had never been such a monster.

A whimper beside him gains his attention. He immediately glances down at Belle to find her tossing and turning.

_Oh no…_

“Belle, wake up,” he says loudly, touching her shoulder.

Her expression is twisted into something anxious and discontented. Smears of red in her fists told him that her nails had broken the skin. Worriedly, he wipes the sweat from her brow, trying to coax her out of whatever nightmare plagued her.

It took a few shakes and several repeats of her name to finally draw her from sleep. She came to crying and confused. He didn't think twice before pulling her into his arms, holding her close as she shook and sobbed.

“It was just a dream,” he murmurs, rocking her gently. “Just a dream…”

“He hurt you,” she sobbed, her voice breaking on every word. “And I couldn't…”

He shushes her. “Who, _minou_?”

“No, no” she protests, but she doesn't pull back. “You'll send me away…”

“Never,” he promises. “Please, _bichette_ , tell me who plagues your nightmares. I'll have him hanged, set beneath the blade of a guillotine, or littered with arrows, whatever puts you at ease…”

She shakes her head, pressing herself closer to him as she does so. He tightens his hold a bit more, then presses a kiss to her hair, leaving his face against the somewhat tousled locks.

“He'll turn you against me,” she whispers sometime later.

“There is not a soul within my nation's borders that could accomplish such a feat,” he says gently. “If the priest in the nearest village told me to choose between your wellbeing and my own salvation I'd cross the gates of Hell without a second thought.”

She lifts her head, studying him with red eyes and flushed cheeks. “Perhaps you should give it a second thought,” she says thickly, her usually bright eyes tired and dull. “What makes you so certain I'm worth any sort of risk?”

He presses his lips to her widow’s peak. “Are you blind to the tenderness I hold for you?” he asks quietly.

Slowly, she shakes her head in the negative.

“Then know this, Beauty: You are the first woman, save for the one who brought me into creation, who has not seen me as an heir to the throne. My rank, my birthrights, they mean nothing to you. And yet at the same time you are of a gentle disposition, assuming your patience has not been spread too thin, and you are in possession of a brilliant mind. Think back to the days before we had visitors, _ma belle_. You had me ensnared with little more than those dazzling eyes, your wit, and petal-soft lips…” he says softly, “I could not cease wanting you even if I desired to.”

She nods, blinking away more tears, and presses against him once more.

“I have you,” he promises, holding her close. “And I have no intentions of letting go…”

~~~

The prince leaves a note outside the door for Mrs. Potts so she knows they'll be late to breakfast. Belle was emotionally drained, but otherwise seemed back to her normal self. Still, he did not want to drag her down to the dining room until she felt a little more alive.

The bath was filling with warm water and suds, which he promised would chase away her chills where the quilts and his own warmth could not. She was somewhat unsteady, so he guides her into the bathroom when it's time to turn off the taps. He even takes the time to carefully undo her plait, which had come somewhat undone during her fitful sleep.

He starts to head back towards the main room, intending to give her privacy to bathe and relax, but she speaks up just as he reaches the doorway.

“Please don't go.”

He turns around, giving her a confused and somewhat shocked sort of look.

She meets his gaze hesitantly, arms wrapped securely around her torso. “I-if you have something to take care of…” she fumbles, trying to amend her previous statement.

He cuts her off. “Do you want me here?”

She swallows once while he watches fear rage war in her golden eyes. “Yes…” she breathes.

“Then I'll stay,” he says simply, even though his heart is pounding. “Anything you want, Belle, anything you need, just say the words…”

She opens her mouth, then snaps it shut almost instantly. He frowns, reading the pain and self-loathing in her expression.

“Beauty, _ma minou,_ ” he says gently, drawing nearer. “Tell me. What is it?”

“It's illogical,” mumbles thickly.

“I couldn't care less,” he tells her, pulling her back into an embrace. “Whatever you need, _minou_.”

She sniffs quietly and he can feel her fingers fist around the material of his night shirt, preventing him from pulling away. Though he had no intentions of doing so, not with her so shaken up.

“Will you sit with me?” she says quietly.

He swallows quietly.

She was trying to trust him. She _needed_ him.

“In the bath or…?” he trails off.

Her cheeks are pink when she lifts her head to look at him.

“I don't mind…” she mumbles.

He nods, his mind suddenly foggy. “Would you like me to step out while you undress?” he asks gently.

She shrugs. “You've had plenty of chances to hurt me before today. If such is your intent and this is the chance you decide to take, your weight and size will put you at the disadvantage…”

He blinks at her, eyes narrowed in confusion.

She chews her lip. “There are suds, meaning soap is already in the water. If I'm slick, you'll have a much harder time holding me still. I'm lighter and faster, meaning I can be halfway across this castle, pause to get properly dressed, and get Phillippe in the time it would take you to right your footing and find a shirt.”

His curiosity becomes sadness and pity. “Plan your escape often, do you?” he asks, trying to keep the hurt from his tone.

She looks away. “This is the longest I’ve stayed in one place for nearly a decade. Constant vigilance has saved my life on more than one occasion...”

He’s weighed down with trepidation. “Is this another impulse?” he asks carefully. “I want you to truly feel safe in my presence, Belle. If you force yourself into situations that surpass the intimacy level you’re comfortable with - capable of handling at this time in your life, even - you will be causing yourself more distress than necessary.”

She looks away, frowning as her grip on his shirt loosens somewhat, as if she were preparing to suddenly force her way out of his arms. It wouldn’t surprise the prince if she was doing just that, even if it was out of habit or reflex rather than genuine fear. He hoped it was simply reflex, since that would mean she was making progress in light of their recent setback.

“Men are not known for their patience,” she says at last, still avoiding eye contact. “You’ll tire of my company quickly if all I can offer you are mousy kisses and skittish cuddling.”

He raises a brow, his expression one of worry and traces of pity. “I certainly would not describe your kisses as _mousy_ ,” he says lightly. “Tentative at the start, more often than not, but if you start affection as if you were halfway to having sex then what’s the purpose? There is no build of passion or time for exploration or _skittish cuddles_ involved with such boorish methods of romance and seduction.” He gives her a slight, amused sort of smile. “For God’s sake, we’re French, not English.”

That pulled a small smile from her and brought those golden eyes back up to his own. “I happened to meet a few English gentlemen in my travels I’ll have you know.” she grins.

His quirked brow turns teasing. “Truly? Did they serenade you in the streets? Compare the hue of your lips to the pinkest rose in their mother’s garden? Profess their undying affection like peacocks prancing for attention?”

Her lips twitch higher. “They were polite as need be, though not with anything close to resembling the flourish and dramatics of their French counterparts.”

He hums smugly. “So I thought. Tell me this then, Beauty: your former suitors, were they more inclined towards a French style of courtship or an English one?”

Her smile falters a fraction at having her past brought up. “English.”

 _Worse than the Brits, I’m sure,_ he muses.

“And how would you describe mine?” he asks her, keeping up the playfulness.

The shadows in her eyes brighten again with a level of fondness he hadn’t been expecting her to show. “Carefully French, Your Highness.”

He returns with an adoring gaze of his own, though not intentionally. “Then you can be rest assured my attention will neither be swayed by time nor limited encouragement.”

Her cheeks flush once again, causing him to smile and press his lips to hers.

“Have your bath in peace, _minou_ ,” he tells her. “I’ll keep the study door open so that I can hear if you call for me.”

At her shy nod, he releases his hold on her and turns to exit the bathroom.

*-*-*

After her bath, they both seemed to remember the previous night’s conversation in unison.

She came to him with her hair loose around her shoulders and dressed in a simple, yet positively enchanting frock with a cut and style spoke of Scottish inspiration. The deep blue velvet caught the light in the most wonderfully distracting way, and he found himself briefly entertaining the whimsical idea of making up some ruse or another - in a simpler future, of course - so that he had an excuse to visit the Scottish court, and thereby an excuse to see if the highlands would bring out the fire he knew lingered somewhere in her damaged soul.

But instead of whisking her away to Scotland, he gestures for her to come nearer with the intention of doing her hair. She moves nearer without prompting and he leads her to the windows so she has something to look at while he puts her hair up.

“You know how to plait?” she questions as he starts sectioning off the damp locks.

“I was partial to toying with my mother's hair as a child,” he tells her. “My father was also a firm believer that if I man desired a wife that he should be well versed in how to do such tasks, in the event that the lady became unable to or maids were ill. Thus I learned.”

“They’re spoken very well of throughout the provinces,” she murmurs. “They were regarded highly before they fell ill as well, but it's what people say after someone is gone that truly paints the picture…”

He drops a kiss to her shoulder before starting to intricately weave her hair at the crown of her head. The strands are soft and she’d smoothed them with some sweet smelling oil he’d never smelled before. It was rich and swirled around him intoxicatingly, soothing the dull ache that had crept up on him when he recalled such treasured memories of his parents.

“They’d have adored you,” he says quietly, somewhat unintentionally. “Father would have debated politics and satire with you until Mama stole you away for an intense discussion on Shakespeare’s hidden meanings and innuendos.”

She produces a scrap of blue ribbon a moment before he planned to ask for some means to fasten her braid with, which he securely ties before wrapping his arms around her. He sighs contentedly when she threads her fingers with the ones settled against her waist and grips the bicep of the arm resting he had above her breast with her other hand - holding him holding her.

“I imagine I would have enjoyed their company as well,” she says after a moment, “If yours is anything to go by.”

He smiles against her tamed hair. “Such high praise…” he teases. “Spend the day with me?”

She shifts slightly so she can give him a somewhat amused expression.

He pecks her on the nose. “Don’t look at me that way. We’ve hardly spent a moment together purposefully for a week’s time.”

Blushing, she shrugs and mutters, “The reigns are yours.”

He presses his lips to her widow’s peak. “That does not make your opinion null, _ma minou_ , simply not the first to be expressed.”

She looks away shyly, nodding in answer to his question.

“We’ve missed breakfast,” he continues, pretending not to notice her discomfort. “Will I have the honor of your company for brunch instead?”

“I can hardly deny you that, can I?” She replies, peaking at him again. He can hear her smile.

“You certainly could,” he tells her as he loosens his grip just enough to gently guide her towards the door. “But I beg you to reconsider if that’s your inclination.”

She says nothing as she turns in his arms, situating herself much closer to him than usual when she takes his offered arm.

When they arrive at the dining room, Mrs. Potts immediately wipes the concern from her expression and starts gently ordering people about to get the pair food while she fusses over their tea. Of the present staff there seemed to be an unspoken understanding to pretend the previous week’s strain between the prince and Belle had never happened. Chef Alphonse was more than pleased to prepare a hearty brunch and was not at all affronted by their inconsistent appearance at meals the week prior. Whatever had been causing a rift in their relationship seemed to have been resolved, which was more than enough to placate the staff…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT: I'm working on rewriting the fic in past tense, so Chapter 8 won't come until after 1-7 have been edited and reposted. I have this fic outlined through the end, however, so once I'm caught up on editing, I have everything planned out. The new chapters will be completely reworked, so I recommend rereading as they're reposted. 
> 
> Also, just because I have this fic planned out entirely doesn’t mean I’m not open to throwing in some fluffy scenes here and there, especially in chapters 8-13. Right now I have the plot planned out as an estimated 18 chapters total, with somewhere in the neighborhood of 2-4 outtakes. I’m also absolutely open to throwing scenes into 1-7 as I rewrite them. And of course, credit will be given to those who inspire/ask for a scene, if you guys have any in mind.
> 
> Tumblr is, as always: @littlemulattokitten


	8. Chapter 1: Returned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 Rewritten

The blue-grey stone of his balcony was frigid like the air around him, though neither bothers him. His body still looked the same, but it was far different from the flesh he was born with. Now he adapted to the seasons more effectively than normal men. He had strength and endurance beyond that of nature's most efficient predators. He could sprint faster than the horses in his stables. He was agiler than any woodland creature. Fatal wounds healed in moments.

All because of his curse.

Nine years made the changes seem less drastic. The same face still greeted him in the mirror each day, though it no longer held the boyish innocence he had borne prior to the curse. Now, as a man of four and twenty, he held the firmer lines of seriousness and maturity. His hair still fell just past his shoulder and was colored the same light auburn he had inherited from his mother. And though he knew he was in no way unattractive, he felt hideous without the deep azure irises he'd once possessed.

Now his eyes were a rich amber, like Mrs. Potts' perfectly brewed tea or dying embers near a healthy flame, according to Lumiere. Cogsworth insisted that they were a cross between a candlelit glass of brandy and thick honey. Mrs. Potts mused that when he was full of energy, either in a temper or due to excitement, his eyes reminded her of molten iron. In truth, his irises were a mix of dark topaz, dull crimson, and white gold that swirled and changed with his mood. Sometimes the hues all blurred together, and other times they each stood out individually, but the fact remained that his eyes were no longer the stunning blue that he'd known since childhood.

And yet despite the fact that they were the most obvious reminder of his inhuman state, he had grown somewhat used to them as well.

Mrs. Potts typically found herself inspired to complement his cursed eyes this time of year, but autumn had been but a teasing affair, with winter overshadowing it before most of the leaves could successfully fall from their branches.

Now, November had half passed, marking both his birthday and the beginning of his final year to undo the curse. He stood on his balcony while the snow fell in thick, dense clumps. Any patches of leaves – of those that managed to fall – were buried under a sea of white as the storm settled over his provincial hideaway. _This winter will be harsh_ , he mused as he shook snow from his hair and dusted it from his clothes before returning to his room, securely locking the balcony doors behind him.

The gales would kick up soon and he had no desire for the storm to be in his rooms with him.

He moved over to the fireplace and sat in one of the two plush chairs in the tidy sitting area, making himself comfortable.

Once upon a time, during the first year of the curse, his personal chambers - the master suite of the West Wing - had been in absolute disarray. In grief and anger, he had destroyed nearly every room, ripping linens and drapes, tearing mattresses, tapestries, and pillows to shreds, even shattering sections of the stone floors on many occasions.

It took him nearly a year to come to terms with the fact that if he wanted his life to change, then he needed to make an effort towards breaking his curse. After that, he set out to have his rooms repaired, with the project being finished just before the dawn on his sixteenth year. Though the wing was restored to its former glory, he could not lift the dreary veil the Enchantress's curse caused on his lands, but at least his home was presentable once more.

He had spent the next four years planning, hosting, and attending parties in search of the woman who would break his curse. No visitors could remain in the castle past sundown, of course, but his guests seemed to take the rule and spin it with enough mystery to make up for any entertainment lost. When he wasn't wife hunting at parties he studied and fulfilled what princely duties he could under the circumstances. His end goal was always in mind, however, as the Enchantress had been very clear on how he could break the spell. Only when he learned to love, and was loved in return, would the curse break. And only if he managed to do so before his twenty-fifth birthday. The only help she offered him was an enchanted rose which served not only as his timepiece, but also as his guide. If he held the rose and thought of whatever woman he currently held affections for, then he would know the true intentions and feelings of that woman in reference to himself.

Never had he checked the rose and learned that a woman he had started to hold dear saw him in such lights as well. His rank and wealth were too much of a temptation for the daughters of the court, whether it be by their family's pressuring or their own ambition. The prince suffered such disappointments time and time again until he turned twenty. It was then that he stopped the parties, stopped the heartache, and lost hope on undoing the curse he loathed.

His staff did not deserve to be victims of his failure, yet they suffered with him, possessing various objects around the castle at dusk, and returning to their normal selves at dawn, day after day. The prince spent most of his time alone, though he was sure the staff knew they were appreciated and thought of fondly. He did not want to damn them, especially not because a selfish mistake made in youth and grief, but he could not help them. The women he was able to consider for marriage were interested in marrying for love, and the princess he'd been betrothed to - but never met - had vanished just before his parents had died. Most of her home province, and the country, presumed her dead.

Why his mother had discussed an arrangement with the girl's parents without the two having ever met, or informing _him_ that his secret fiancée was in a neighboring province, was beyond his comprehension. But the fact remained that fate had stolen his family, and the woman who his mother thought would - could - love him all before he'd gotten the chance to appreciate or acknowledge what he had.

In the past, he had contemplated asking his uncle for permission to seek a wife from a lower class, but each time he attempted to put pen to parchment for that correspondence, his self-esteem plummeted and he forfeited the task. Even the lower classes would have trouble seeing past his gold, at any rate.

The Enchantress had visited him in a sort of vision shortly after he stopped the parties. During said encounter, she had apologized for judging him so harshly when he was fifteen, and told him that while she could not undo his curse, she could help him find the woman capable of helping him reverse it. She praised him for the beautiful life he had built and the changes he had made within himself, and advised him to ignore any women who attempted to gain his affections. The only exception to this rule being the woman she found and sent to him, equipped with an enchanted mirror from the Enchantress herself. When the vision ended and the Enchantress presumably began searching for the woman he would potentially marry, the Prince began to experience dreams that he could hardly recall upon waking. He knew it was the same dream each time, but could only remember passing details such as the fact that he was protecting someone. A girl, he assumed, and for some reason or another he would lose track of her. She always ran from him, though he couldn't recall as to why. All he knew for certain was that the dream happened somewhat often, and that it frustrated him to no end when he woke up with little to no memory of it.

He hoped it was some kind of hint about the mirror bearing girl he was to look out for.

And looked he had.

With parties and balls no longer being held several times a season, very few new women crossed his path. He had dutifully ignored the daughters of court members on the rare occasion that their fathers visited for business and brought them along. He had been patient, as asked, but he grew more worried by the day.

How long would it take him to fall in love? How long with it take the girl with the mirror to love him in return? Would less than a year be enough time? And if she rejected him, what then?

He let out a deep sigh, casting a glance over his shoulder to survey the snow. It was piled about as high as Mrs. Potts was tall in teapot form, layered evenly along the balcony railings and floor. The wind was harsh and blew the large flakes sideways, causing the larger, icier chunks to clink as they hit the windows. All the white glowed, making it easy to see even though the sky was pitch black.

He noticed the fire was growing dim, but opted to stay seated a while longer before tending it. Mrs. Potts would tut at him if she caught him without a healthy fire going, never mind that the entire castle knew he wouldn't catch cold or be uncomfortable without the extra heat. He did try to stay in the habit of having one, if only to give himself the illusion of being another ordinary man.

When he rose and decided to feed more life into the flames, he noticed the muted sounds of people drawing near. The darkness of the storm made him forget that it wasn't sundown, making him panic for a moment, thinking people had broken into the castle, but Mrs. Potts worried tones reached his sensitive ears and rid him of that concern.

Putting the poker away, he strode over to the doors and opened them before they reached the end of the hall. Obviously something was amiss, with two members of his guard, Mrs. Potts, Lumiere, and Cogsworth all varying degrees of winded and excited. He frowned, giving them a moment to catch their breaths before bothering with questions.

"Your highness, we think she's found us," Mrs. Potts said quickly, her pleasant accent thickened by worry and exhilaration. "The guards found a young woman unconscious a fair distance from the outer perimeter. Poor dear's quite ill, but, Sir, why on Earth would a lady be out in this storm? And alone!"

He took a moment to control the hope stirring in his chest before stepping out into the hall.

"I assume someone is tending to her?" He asked

There was a round of nodding as Cogsworth wheezed, "Madame Armoire."

"Very well," The prince said. "I'm sure walking will suffice for the trip down." Turning to the two guards, he added, "Regardless of who she turns out to be, there's no good reason for a woman to be out alone in this weather. Make sure everyone is dressed appropriately and divided into groups. I want patrols all night."

They chorused, "Yes, Sir," and bowed before taking off at a brisk jog back down to the main levels of the castle.

He returned his attention to the triad he lovingly and secretly referred to as 'the triumvirate' and gestured for them to lead the way.

"Do we know anything about her yet?" He questioned, leaving the inquiry in the air for any of them to answer.

Cogsworth piped up first, having finally managed to catch his second wind, "Nothing definitive at present, Your Highness, b-but we do have several theories running!"

"Aye," Chimed Mrs. Potts. "She's yet to wake up, so we haven't been able to speak with her yet, but her things have been brought to her room and the stable boys are looking after her horse."

The prince toyed with that information his mind a moment, then turned to Lumiere. "An old farm horse, I presume?" he mused aloud, "Could she be a runaway?"

Lumiere frowned slightly. "Not a particularly old horse, Your Majesty. I only caught a glimpse of it before I carried her in. Looked like a thorough bred Belgian," he said. "Didn't seem to give the boys much trouble about leading it, either. Her saddle and satchels were quite nice, as well."

"I would put gold on the runaway status," Mrs. Potts muttered. "It's no wonder she caught such a dreadful fever. About as thick as a switch, she is. Lord only knows when her last proper meal was."

"I've carried sacks of flour heavier than she," Lumiere added sadly. "And such a beauty too."

The prince frowned, deeply bothered by the information they'd presented him, and lost himself in his thoughts as they continued down the stairs.

The deeper they ventured into the castle, the more tangled his thoughts became. It made sense to him that The Enchantress would send him someone whose familiarity with life's hardships rivaled his own. Her logic was sound. He needed someone who could understand his situation and empathize with it, someone who could accept him for his faults. But he was burdened by the insinuations surrounding this mystery woman's appearance. They had already ruled poverty out of the question based on her horse and belongings, but she could be any number of things, a thief even. How would he justify marrying a felon, if such were the case? Even more unsettling were the more likely scenarios – those in which she was a victim of some horror or another.

Women were not always treated as they should be, he knew. Even the view from his pretty palace couldn't negate the evils and injustices in the world. He could enforce the laws put in place by his parents before him, however, if and when such cases reached his court. There was even talk that the woman who was – had been? – his fiancé was attacked in such a way. And if such rumors were true, though he hoped otherwise, then he could do little more that pray she did run away of her own accord and wasn't captured by her attacker.

He felt the same towards this curious woman whom he did not yet know. Even if she did not have the mirror, if he could help her find safety he would do everything in his power to do so, as his mother would have expected him to. Sickening worries aside, the Enchantress had promised him a girl who could break his curse, meaning if this newcomer did indeed possess the enchanted mirror, then she would have to be someone he could marry with ease if they broke the curse together. He hoped that fact took criminals out of the running, but he knew without a doubt that it ruled out the lower classes, making him more confident in the idea that the girl's horse and belongings weren't stolen. Assuming this woman was reasonably well off, the prince's thoughts came full circle.

What on Earth would a woman of a decent family be doing in the middle of a storm so late in the evening? She was too deep in the woods to have been heading to the nearest village, so if she was lost he had no idea how she managed to get miles away from home without realizing she was going the wrong direction.

The prince shook himself in an attempt to clear his mind. He could dwell all night but it wouldn't give him answers.

Lit candelabras marked the path to one of the finer guest rooms of the East Wing. A maid came from the opposite end of the hall at the same time the group rounded the corner, carrying with her a tub of water. Another maid appeared from a room several doors down with a stack of linens, hurrying to catch up with the other one.

When they reached the doors and pushed them open, the prince saw why. They were using strips of cloth and the cool water to tend to what he assumed was some earthbound goddess, or perhaps an angel.

She was the single most enchanting creature he'd ever laid his eyes on. Her skin was surely a pale cream when it wasn't tinged with sickness and fever, and he tried to imagine how her dark curls looked on a typical day, as opposed to her current bedridden state. Equally dark eyelashes rested against her fever flushed cheeks, while her brows arced attractively over her eyes. And he'd never seen such an adorable nose.

Her lips were a lovely hue of pink and parted slightly as she softly breathed through them.

The covers were only pulled up to her waist, likely because of her fever, and the nightgown they had her in was dark purple and much too big for her. He frowns when he realizes how small she is. Her collarbones were a bit too prominent. The sleeves of her nightgown were rolled up so the maids could cover her in the cool cloths, but he could still tell that her arms were a bit thin.

She was a ghost of a woman under the nightgown, judging by how little of it she filled out, but she was still lovely.

Very lovely, in fact, but her obvious malnourishment made him nauseous and rather angry. At the youngest, she was nineteen, and at the oldest, twenty-three. He saw no wedding band on her left hand. Why wasn't she married? Someone should have claimed this tiny beauty the moment she was of marrying age and yet she was here unconscious in one of his rooms and seemingly single. His jaw tightened as he realized that she was absolutely a runaway and probably a victim of some horror or another. Gods help him if she was an orphan like himself.

He let out a breath slowly and turned to find Madame Armoire patiently waiting for his attention by the end of the four poster.

"It will be sundown soon, Master," she told him. "What shall we do with her?"

He frowned. His staff possessed common objects at night. They couldn't tend to her.

"Can she be moved?" He asked.

Lumiere spoke up from behind him. "I'm certain I've carried sacks of flour heavier than she. I can move her."

"If she must be," Madame Armoire answered, frowning. "Your chambers, Your Highness?"

"Yes." He told her.

Mrs. Potts made a noise of protest. "I don't think that's wise, Master. There's no good reason for a lady her age to be on her own – and in such a state! - I dread to ponder what she's gone through."

He turned, eyebrow raised. "As do I, but the fact remains that I can watch over her through the night and the rest of you cannot," he said firmly. "Has anyone gone through her things?"

"No, we assumed you would like to do so yourself," Madame Armoire answered.

Lumiere grabbed three leather satchels, each of a different size, from beside the fire and brought them to the prince.

"We can have her moved by sundown," he said, even though he seemed just as concerned as Mrs. Potts about the idea.

The prince took the bags with ease. "It is not ideal," he said, "But it will have to do for now."

It took him much less time to return to his quarters, as he could make the trek at a faster speed without becoming winded. He had to admit that the curse had its benefits, but he did not have to like them. It wasn't as if they outweighed the negatives, at any rate. There wasn't a woman in her right mind who would marry a man that had been made inhuman to match his adolescent temper. Oddly enough, that image did not produce the fantasies of safety and protection that most married for. Not that anyone would marry into his station and willingly isolate themselves from society in the event that love didn't blossom in time.

_No,_ the prince thought as he set her belongings on his bed. _Such a decision would be so very foolish._

Not that he would allow such an arrangement in the first place.

He sat atop the covers, grabbing the nearest bag – the oldest looking of the lot – and undid the button on the flap. The items inside add strength to his theory that the mystery woman comes from wealth rather than thievery. The stationary, pens, ink, and journals were of such excellent quality that he knew they were made by commission, and thus paid for, not sitting premade in a shop ready to be taken by clever hands.

Digging deeper, he came across several small knives of varying types, all of which appeared expertly made. A heavy pouch of coins was tucked deep into a bottom corner of the bag, and upon inspection, he recognized it was official currency – specifically: currency made in a nearby province.

Peculiar.

He put everything back as he found it before reaching for the next satchel. In this one, he found two daggers and an odd hatchet unlike any he'd ever seen. The handle was metal instead of wood and folded in on itself, making it more compact. He wondered where she'd stumbled upon such a curious item, and furthermore, why such a convenient tool was not being made and sold to the masses. He set it aside.

There were maps, some rolled and some folded, in the many pockets inside the second satchel. He thought it empty until he lifted it in preparation for repacking and realized that, judging by the weight, there had to be something remaining inside. The hidden pocket took him several minutes to find, and he wouldn't have found it if not for the faint outline of the item within. When his hand finally came in contact with a cool metal handle, his breath stilled.

It was not smooth, as a swirling design had been carved out of the metal. On the back, these twisting leaf and vine-like swirls led to a rose. Several small pearls were artfully places in curves and near the smaller roses strewn throughout the pattern, creating an intricate and charming piece of metal work. When he turned it over in his hand, he found more roses at the crown and base of the circle of glass, along with more tiny pearls, and did not stop his inspection until his eyes landed on his own shocked visage.

A small tingle, a hum, came from the mirror in his hand, immediately bringing back memories from the night he was cursed. The Enchantress' magic had felt much stronger, but similar to the sensation emitted by the pretty trinket.

He knew not how the mirror worked or what about it made it magical, but he supposed he would have to ask its owner when she regained her health. With care, he returned it to its rightful place, along with the other items from that particular bag, and moved on to the next.

The breath he drew in sounded like a hiss as it passed his teeth. Several small bundles wrapped in cloth were in this satchel, and his nose immediately recognized the scent of stale bread. His chest ached as he went through, speaking past the cloths to find a few rolls, the freshest items, along with half a baguette and half a loaf of stale bread. The other cloths held dried meats, cheeses, and a few apples. There was even a small drawstring burlap sack with a few potatoes and carrots. These were not the provisions of a traveler. These were the provisions of a nomad.

He packed it all away again, though he had no intention of letting her eat any of it, and set all her bags by his study door before releasing an unsteady breath to ground himself.

He would find out why was not home, and if she had no home to go to, he would give her one.

It made him sick to think that something so awful could have happened.

Such thoughts continued to twist in his mind at he moved about gathering extra bedding for the woman he'd been waiting for. The longer his brain worked the more tangled his thoughts became, so that by the time he had started layering quilts atop his sheets, he was certain he was thinking in circles. After smoothing the duvet atop the quilts and hoping three layers would be enough to ward off the chill Mrs. Potts often muttered under her breath about, he folded down the blankets where he wanted Lumiere to place the girl.

The prince's thoughts were still churning when footsteps and quiet murmuring reached his ears. As he rose to open the doors, he couldn't help but feel as if a thought had escaped him somehow, but the harder he tried to pinpoint what he might have overlooked about the situation, the farther away the thought became. Even as Lumiere crossed the threshold and moved around the bed to set the girl on the sheets, his brain buzzed, almost as if he had forgotten something.

Lumiere straightened with a sigh, making the Prince aware that his maitre d' wasn't particularly winded after carrying the girl from one side of the castle to the other. That knowledge settled unevenly in the prince's chest, strengthening the sensation that something was _presque vu_. Something about this girl was almost familiar, though he was certain he'd never seen her before tonight.

Mrs. Potts set out her tea service on the table before the fire as Madame Armoire placed a bowl of melting snow and several cloths on the table as well. Cogsworth appeared in the doorway with two saddle bags, slightly out of breath once again, and placed them by the girl's other belongings.

"Clothing," he whispered by way of explanation, turning to the prince. "Has His Majesty learned anything from inspecting the lady's belongings?"

The others perked up at the question, giving the prince their full attention as he rubbed a temple.

Trying to offer them some semblance of a smile, he said, "I'd have preferred she come to us in a much better state...but there was a small mirror among her things."

They each made a noise of hushed delight, with Mrs. Potts being the first to speak up.

"Could that explain why she's out in such a state, Your Majesty?" She asked him, her eyes wide and hopefully.

Briefly, his eyes traveled to the bag with stale bread. "No," said the prince, frowning as an epiphany danced around the edges of his acknowledgment. "I have much to discuss with the lady when she wakes. At present, there is not enough evidence to explain her situation, and I feel it is not fair of me to read through what correspondence I found among her things simply to resolve my own curiosity."

Some of the brightness left their eyes as they took in his words, and the prince empathized with their disappointment, wishing the scenario was not as bleak as it seemed.

Far away, he heard the echoing chimes of a clock tower. On the sixth strike, he snapped out of his daze and addressed his staff.

"The sun will soon set. Unless there are additional concerns, I dismiss you all to prepare for the night."

Bowing and murmuring various farewells, the four left him in peace. He caught Mrs. Potts mutterings about informing Chef Alphonse to prepare a broth or two, while Lumiere and Cogsworth seemed to have started discussing the girl's possible origins.

He shut the door as quietly as possible and secured the locks with equal care. A slow breath left him as he turned to face the room, his eyes immediately finding the newest addition to his bed. He crossed the room with nearly silent steps, making his way around the bed to the left side.

She had nearly curled in on herself, with one hand tucked under her head and the other fisting the sheets. Her pretty features were twisted by discomfort, making him feel the need to gently press a hand to her forehead and check her temperature. She was warm, to be certain, but not concerningly so. With a feather light touch, he brushed back a few pieces of sweat-soaked hair from her skin, marveling in the multitude of colors the firelight made visible in the strands. The same colors were present in her eyelashes as well, he discovered.

Even ill she was a beauty.

Still taking in her features, the prince frowned. The sense of forgetfulness plaguing him grew stronger as he looked on, and he desperately sought for something that would trigger whatever thought was evading him.

Pretty. Brown hair. Small – compared to himself, at least. Noble birth.

His eyes narrowed.

Noble.

That factor struck a chord, though no memories surfaced as a result.

What had he forgotten?

_Oh, Adam..._

He blinked, frowning as his mother's voice echoed in the back of his mind.

_You were utterly besotted with her as a child, Darling, and she's only more beautiful now._

He drew in a breath as lead settled heavily in the pit of his stomach. Taking several steps away from the bed, he jumped when he came into contact with one of the reading chairs, only then realizing the hard, loud throbbing of his heart.

Oh how he hoped his fears were incorrect.

It would be so very fitting, however, if the rumors of the missing princess proved false. He could appreciate the irony of the situation, assuming the girl had not died but had run away instead. The rumors surrounding her disappearance varied in complexity and believability, the story having evolved as drama with limited factual evidence tends to.

Of the many stories he'd heard during the weeks following the deaths of Prince Maurice, Princess Elise, and the presumed death of Princess Belle, only a few themes were repeated: Someone attempted either to murder the family or force the young princess into a marriage, but when the offender was caught in his heinous act by one or more of the family members, the three were murdered. The villain was never caught and Princess Belle's body was never found. The crown to fall to the next in line, Elise's sister Astrid, who was one of the few convinced that Belle was still alive.

It was a hell of a tale, and the province had been in a state of anxiousness for several years after the tragedy, but the prince had already been cursed at that point, leaving him with very little emotional energy to spare on the horrors his neighbors had experienced. Princess Astrid filled her sister's shoes with grace and ease, though her disappointment at not having the opportunity to see her niece coronated was well known. At the time, Astrid's coronation put things back in order, politically, at least, thus giving the prince the ability to push the events to the back of his mind.

He sighed, eyeing the miserable beauty before him anxiously while he tried to remember what else his mother had told him about the girl. Something about her eyes, if memory served, thought he couldn't quite remember the exact detail.

He moved to the other chair – his mother's chair – and set about pouring himself a cup of tea. As he sipped, he noticed a letter sticking out from under the edge of his cup's saucer. He set his cup down before curiously sliding the note free, not recognizing the hand in which his name was written across the front.

He hummed in thought, turning the missive over and finding a rose pressed into red and white sealing wax.

Sparing a glance over his shoulder, he inspected _his_ rose. The outside of its petals were silvery white while the insides were a deep red, unlike any other rose he'd ever seen. The pattern of the petals was also foreign to him, but he assumed it has something to do with its magical properties. Just as he assumed he knew who the letter was from.

Carefully breaking the seal, he read the short note quickly.

_I believe it's time this was returned to you, but be aware that she is not yet ready to accept who she is._ _Like a rose, you must tend to her so she may flower._

_Have patience, young prince, and be kind._

Rustling from his bed distracts him momentarily, and he stilled when he saw the girl – his _princess -_ weakly stirring among the blankets.

He stood quietly, leaving the letter on the tea tray, and moved to the foot poster on her side of the bed. She struggled to sit upright while simultaneously rubbing at her eyes. A soft groan escaped her as she squinted against the firelight for several seconds before here feverish eyes finally found him.

His breath caught as they held gazes, and his mother's words about the girl finally came back to him.

_She has the prettiest eyes, My Adam. They are the purest gold in the sun and they glisten like tea by dusk's light._

They were so very, very gold, so disarmingly bright in color that he had no choice but to study them intently while his mind tried to wrap around the unusual shade. It was as if a chunk of citrine had been carved into two rings and placed around her pupils, for they glinted in the firelight, mimicking the flames in the hearth.

How very fitting it was that the Enchantress guide _this woman_ to him. An orphan who had survived hells of her own, with eyes so similar to his cursed ones, and yet the color on her stirred no negative feelings. Quite the opposite in fact.

How aptly her mother had named her. How convenient it was that for this woman, he already had his parents' blessings from beyond the grave.

But he knew better than to assume her arrival would make life quite so easy. He still had to fall for the girl and be fallen for in return to break the curse. The Enchantress told him to have patience, and thus, he would endeavor to do so. Although he wished he had a plan or at least some sense of direction for how to move forward with her. Did she even know who he was?

He was just about to open his mouth to offer her tea and inquire about her comfort when she spoke in a soft voice.

"Hello, Adam..."

Well. That was one of many questions answered, he supposed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi *waves* I'm keeping the old chapters up for now. They'll be taken down when I finish editing everything.
> 
> Let me know what you think about the new first chapter. :)


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